The Potions Master - Redux
by DjinniFires
Summary: Will Harry always save the day? Who's behind the series of terrifying accidents threatening Hogwarts' heroes? Harry's wrong assumptions about Snape complicate solving this current day mystery and uncovering a Marauder era secret. Alternate 5th year: Sirius doesn't die, Cho isn't a wimp, Snape is mysterious and grand, modern technology rattles Hogwarts, not all Slytherins are bad.
1. Monkey

**Author's Note: **I started writing this alternate 5th year in 2003 before the canonical 5th through 7th years were written. Although I completed it after the series was completed, I didn't go back and change the characters and relationships that are now _not_ canonical. In chapters where these "alternate" versions of characters appear, I'll add an author's note. Hopefully, the differences will be acceptable variations on JKR's intriguing original themes.

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

**MONKEY**

Harry watched Hermione shift from foot to foot at the front of the class. Abashed, she glanced at the teacher. "What was the question again?"

Her classmates giggled.

Professor Ariel Daine cast a warning look across the room. Not for the first time, Harry thought how little she looked like an expert in Defense Against the Dark Arts. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. Freckles dusted her cheeks. Her hair—short, blonde and fluffy—reminded him of the down on a newborn chick.

"The question? What animal did I ask you to remember?" American, Professor Daine spoke with a lilting accent she identified as Alabaman. Rumor had it that back at her alma mater, Lost Bayou Institute for the Magical Arts and Sciences, she'd once used that playful drawl to talk seven zombies into returning to their graves.

"Uh," Hermione stammered, darting helpless glances at Ron and Harry. Suddenly, she brightened. "But I do remember we're having sushi and bagels for lunch."

Shrieks of laughter broke out around the room at Professor Daine's demonstration of the art of memory rearrangement. Out of loyalty, Harry bit his lip. Seeing the cleverest pupil at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry forget something she'd sworn she wouldn't just minutes before—then parrot back what she'd been told to say—_was_ rather funny.

"The animal was a blue monkey," the professor said. "And I'm afraid lunch will be beef pie, spinach, and mashed potatoes."

Hanging her head so low that her unruly brown hair obscured her eyes, Hermione slouched back to her seat.

"Don't take it so. Not many can sidestep a Memory Charm." Professor Daine surveyed the room with her wide, hazel eyes. "Is there another volunteer so Hermione won't feel singled out?"

Harry slid low in his seat. Next to him, Ron began pointing at him enthusiastically.

Professor Daine smiled. "Harry?"

"Nice one," he muttered to Ron as he rose to his feet.

When Harry reached the professor, she raised her wand. She'd once told the class she'd made it herself from peach wood and a hair from the head of a Jersey devil. Smiling, she said, "Let's try a different animal—a pink elephant. Take a moment to picture it."

Harry closed his eyes. Soon a pink cartoon elephant materialized in his mind, coyly swinging a long, pink trunk. Picturing things in his head was a familiar pastime—perfected during long hours banned to his cupboard under the stairs at his aunt and uncle's, the Dursleys. Outside the cupboard, he'd even used the technique to blank out particularly infuriating diatribes from Uncle Vernon. In this subject, his rotten home life gave him an advantage over Hermione. Slowly, he nodded.

Professor Daine began with words. "The pink elephant turns its back. No trunk or tusks. All you see is a large pink disk—a pink disk that spreads and spreads . . . ."

After awhile, Harry found himself unaware of her words—only of a feeling of peace, security, and happiness. He found himself mentally turning towards the source of the warmth and away from . . . _Pink Elephant!_ He shouted to himself. _Don't lose your pink elephant. _Resolutely, he willed it back into focus. When it turned, its tusks looked sharp and its eyes fierce. He forced himself to see the roughness of its hide, the saliva dripping from its mouth.

Faraway, he heard Professor Daine's soothing voice asking him to tell everyone about his animal. As he opened his eyes, he repeated to himself, _Pink elephant_. But before he said it aloud, he glanced at Hermione. Her stricken look made him say, "A blue monkey."

The professor narrowed her eyes skeptically at him, but the relief on Hermione's face made his lie worthwhile.

Then, beneath the friendly laughter that had exploded at his answer, he heard a different kind of chuckle—low, breathy, and supremely self-satisfied. Turning to the door, Harry saw his nemesis, Professor Snape, slowly applauding. The crinkles around the dark eyes made him look mildly amused, but Harry knew his hidden malice. Why hadn't he just said _pink elephant_?

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Professor Daine stand straighter and smooth a hand down her long, black robes. "We have a visitor. Severus—Professor Snape—has kindly agreed to expand on our topic by telling us about memory potions."

At the name _Snape_, the roomful of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs went silent. The Potions master swept between desks to the front, prompting students on either side to draw in their arms and legs as if to make themselves less noticeable. As usual, Snape's black robes were of a higher quality than the average professor's, but they were stained by some potion gone wrong. Hurriedly, Harry skirted the approaching threat and resumed his seat between Ron and Hermione.

If he could block out pleasant Professor Daine, he could surely block out Snape, Harry told himself. But as the wizard's softly menacing voice reached his ears, Harry found himself looking up. Countless tortured hours in Potions had trained him to fear that missing a syllable risked expulsion from Hogwarts.

"I have other tasks I should be doing—would prefer to be doing—right now. But the headmaster, in his infallible wisdom, has declared that fifth year students must gain experience at integrating the different branches of learning into that one, all-encompassing marvel that is the art of magic. When he speaks, we can do naught but obey."

Standing a few feet away, Professor Daine grinned. Evidently, she hadn't spent enough time with Snape to realize his snide tone was completely sincere.

"In the real world a magician with dark purposes will not be gentle. The memories he will want to wrench from you will be more significant than blue monkeys and pink elephants. He will use potions that break your will and lay bare your most crucial secrets. Those that don't serve his purpose, he'll replace. And the only evidence he'll leave of his theft is a mild confusion, an impairment in your ability to govern your own mind."

In the front row, Barden Grandstaff raised his hand. From Hufflepuff, the stocky blond combined unfailing politeness with an easy-going humor that let him shed Snape's sarcasm like water off a walrus. Harry wished he could do the same.

Professor Snape ignored Barden, but Professor Daine nodded at him.

"Doesn't the Ministry of Magic use memory potions for good—"

The Potions master snorted, stopping Barden mid-sentence. "To protect us from the unpleasantness that results when some fool allows Muggles to see what doesn't concern them?"

Barden raised his eyebrows. "Well, yes."

"And what makes you think the effects on the mind are any different when memory rearrangement is used for _good_ purposes?" Snape shrugged. "The deleterious effects of Ministry practices on Muggles are irrelevant to our objectives here."

To his left, Harry caught Hermione glaring so hard he thought her eyes would cross. After all, the rest of her family _were_ Muggles.

"Few of you will ever be called upon to shield your thoughts from an evil wizard—a fact for which we can all be grateful. It takes a certain amount of _cunning_. Mere _bravery_ won't cut it."

Harry ignored the taunt from cunning Slytherin at brave Gryffindor. He was one of the few students that knew Professor Snape had once faced the challenge he described.

"There are potions that will enhance your memory to the level of inability to forget any detail that passes through your consciousness."

Harry saw Hermione's glare fade into a distant stare. She began scribbling furiously on her parchment.

"I do not recommend them," Snape added darkly. "An overly acute memory can be an unexpected burden." His lips moved slightly as if he were considering saying more.

Professor Daine smiled. "Researchers at Lost Bayou Institute are studying mind techniques that—"

"Lost Bayou. In America." Snape flicked his hand. "I don't have time today to discuss speculative _mentalist_ theories. Suffice it to say, the potion of choice is particularly complex. Anyone but a Grand Master would be a fool to attempt it. It creates a duplicate of one's memories. The invading wizard will destroy one, unaware that an indelible copy is buried underneath."

Without a break, Snape launched into a catalog of various memory-altering potions, listing the composition and attributes of each. Only Hermione took notes. He finished with, "Expect a test tomorrow in Potions." At the collective groans that greeted this announcement, he smiled, nodded at Professor Daine, then began striding back between desks. All the students swiveled in their chairs to watch him, as if counting the seconds until he was gone.

When he reached the door, Professor Daine called out, "Thank you, Severus. I look forward to returning the favor."

Professor Snape paused, then turned. He held her gaze a moment with an expression Harry couldn't read. Then he murmured, "We'll discuss it."

As soon as Snape had left, grumbles filled the room. Apparently, Harry wasn't the only one who hadn't imagined a brief guest lecture would result in a test.

Professor Daine waved a hand for silence, then pointed at her office door, which stood slightly ajar. "I knew Professor Snape would be full of valuable information, so I took the liberty of placing a Quick-Notes Quill on my desk. It's set to make enough copies for all of you by the end of this session."

On one side, Harry heard Ron sigh in relief. On his other, he heard Hermione mutter, "But I've already made notes."

* * *

Five minutes after Defense Against the Dark Arts had ended, Harry was still in the classroom, now standing and clutching his copy of Quick-Notes.

"Don't fret," Professor Daine assured Hermione for the sixth time. "When it comes to memory rearrangement, I'm told your O.W.L.s will only cover concepts. You won't be asked to demonstrate auror level resistance skills. Although," she added with a glance at Harry, "that might be useful for the N.E.W.T.s."

Ron cleared his throat, and Harry wondered what was coming.

"Professor Snape certainly took over your lesson, didn't he? You know, he's always wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts himself. It's common knowledge."

Harry grimaced at the collegial tone in his friend's voice. He knew where it came from. When Ron's brother Percy had seen them off to school at train platform nine and three-quarters, he'd advised Ron that to be considered for prefect one should act like one is on par with the administration.

"Common knowledge?" Professor Daine returned her usual friendly smile. For a moment, Harry wondered what a smile so habitual really meant. Then she cocked her head. "He could teach it if he wanted. From what I've seen, Professor Snape can handle all the arts. But nobody matches his skill at making potions."

When Ron nodded knowingly, Harry rolled his eyes.

"Don't forget to review—I mean, revise—your notes. I'm still learning the vocabulary over here. Hurry along now, or you all might miss your lunch," she added.

As Harry trooped out of the classroom with his friends, he heard Hermione mumble, "Sushi and bagels. What was I thinking?"

* * *

**Author's Note**: Please read & review. It means a lot!


	2. Climbing

_**Chapter 2**_

**CLIMBING**

At ten o'clock that night, Harry left the library with Hermione and Ron feeling wrung out. Torches in wall sconces lit their way down the long corridor. As they trudged along, he counted the pools of flickering light they cast on the flagstone floor.

"Doesn't it seem like all we do these days is study?" Ron grumbled. "I haven't played a game of Exploding Snap since we climbed off the train."

"We're not little children anymore." Hermione sniffed, then twisted to keep a book from toppling off her stack.

Harry shifted the five he was balancing and used his shoulder to straighten Hermione's eight. The cauldrons, ingredients, and potion-making paraphernalia they'd been practicing with in the student laboratory filled their rucksacks, so all the research they'd checked out for their other subjects had to be hand carried. "Too bad we can't use magic in the hallways. A shrinking spell would do wonders in lightening these loads of ours."

"I wish I had a lighter load altogether," Ron growled. "I already know I'm going to fail Temporal Transfiguration. We should never have let Hermione bully us out of signing up for Divination again. I'd like at least _one_ professor who's a soft touch."

Hermione harrumphed as they rounded a crook in the hallway.

Harry grinned. Then he stopped dead, staring at that softest of all touches, Professor Trelawney. She was fingering her way along the rough, granite walls towards them. Without her oversized, highly-magnifying glasses, she appeared almost blind. The way she tiptoed through the shadows, then tottered quickly past the light reminded him of a furtive daddy long-legs.

"What's _she_ doing here?" he breathed. Nothing but a special occasion or an omen of calamity could have enticed the Divination master from her high tower chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Trelawney gave a start. "James? James Potter? Is that you?"

Harry grimaced. He hadn't thought the ethereal professor aware enough of her surroundings to catch his mumbled words. The fact that she'd mistaken him for his father showed she believed those surroundings of another time and place. "No, professor. _Harry_ Potter," he called back.

She puckered her forehead as if wracking her memory.

"Divination the last two years?" Harry said helpfully. "Visions of a Grim? The first to leave the Christmas table out of thirteen? Fell into a trance during a lesson?"

Trelawney's pale eyes shot wide. Then she scuttled towards them.

On one side of him, Hermione groaned. On his other, Ron took a step backward. Harry stayed where he was, hoping to get through this encounter without too many predictions of catastrophe.

Trelawney didn't stop until she'd stuck her pointed nose within an inch of Harry's. Abruptly, she clutched his hands—using more strength than he'd have thought the frail woman could muster. "I must see Albus. Immediately. Tonight the crystal was hideously clear. Doom! Heartbreak! A sight no mortal woman should have to bear!"

_As if we'd expected you to say anything else._ Harry cleared his throat. "Er, the headmaster. His office is off a passage up on the seventh floor. You must have been there before, but if you'd like, we could—"

Her grip tightened. In a strangely guttural voice, she intoned, "Red and black—they shared a room but not a house."

While Harry was still trying to figure _that_ out, another voice pierced the darkness.

"Sybill. Let the students be."

Harry had never imagined he'd feel relieved to hear Snape's imposing whisper.

Trelawney dropped his hands as if she'd been caught stealing them. "Must. Must see Albus," she muttered.

Without warning, Snape swept out of the shadows, cutting the Divination master off from Harry. "Enough, Sybil. Whatever you've seen cannot concern these children." He turned his unfathomable black eyes on the three Gryffindors. "You have just enough time to return to your dormitories before you break curfew."

"Yes, sir." Hugging his books, Harry sidled around Professor Trelawney. She closed her eyes, one claw-like hand touching her throat.

Beside him, Hermione blew out her breath. Ron was already scooting up the corridor. As Harry quickened his pace to catch up, he heard Trelawney's portentous murmur: "Red and black. My vision was true, was it not? Tonight ghastly fate has unveiled itself to me once more!" Then Snape's forceful reply: "Albus is sleeping. He cannot be disturbed. I suggest you talk to him tomorrow. For now, I shall escort you back to your rooms."

_Tomorrow_. Harry snorted softly. By morning, the Divination master's attention would have drifted on to another devastating prophecy, this one all but forgotten. With that conclusion, he hurried with his friends through the maze of passages that led to Gryffindor Tower.

Not until they were halfway up the stairs did Ron break their silence. "I take it back, Hermione. I'm _glad_ you talked me out of Divination. Not having a new excruciating death foretold every week is certainly helping me sleep better."

* * *

Saturday morning, Friday's test on memory potions now behind them, Harry dawdled with Hermione and Ron over brunch in the Great Hall. The enchanted ceiling showed that the October sky outside was clear, blue, and cloudless.

When Harry finally pushed away his plate, leaving one last morsel of French toast in a puddle of maple syrup, he sighed in satisfaction.

Daintily, Hermione sipped her pumpkin juice. "The least we could do is thank them."

"Thank whom?" Ron mumbled around a bite of sausage.

"The house elves who prepared this wonderful meal. The least we could do is thank them." Hermione slanted a glance at Ron, then looked away. "After all, they're not getting paid."

Ron slammed down his knife and fork. "Not that again. The house elves don't _want_ to get paid."

"And you think they don't even want to be thanked?"

Ron shot Hermione a superior look. "No. I don't think so. It would only make them ill-at-ease."

"As if you'd know," Hermione taunted. "As if you're the expert."

"Honestly, you two," Harry muttered. The electricity that sparked each time his friends stole a peek at each other was so powerful, it was embarrassing. He wished they'd kiss and be done with it—preferably in some secret corner of Hogwarts where he couldn't stumble across them accidentally.

His roving eyes fell on another teenager sitting one table over with a crowd of Ravenclaws. Surrounded by laughter, Cho looked melancholy. Her sadness only made her large, dark eyes more beautiful. When he saw her gaze drift across the Great Hall, Harry's stomach clenched. Quickly, he stared down at his plate.

There had been moments, scattered over the last two years, when he'd sensed electricity between him and Cho. Before he could summon the courage to act on it, Cedric Diggory had stepped in. Alive, Cedric had been a rival he could have faced. With Cedric dead—martyred, in fact—Harry didn't stand a chance. This year he'd subjected himself to an optional course with Professor Binns, History of Oriental Magic, just because he'd overheard she'd be taking it. Even so, he hadn't had the courage to strike up a conversation even once.

"There's the expert," Ron said suddenly. "Ask him."

Startled, Harry looked up. Across the hall, Dobby was walking slowly towards them, but he didn't look like himself. His newly acquired stocking cap looked bedraggled, and his polka-dotted tie hung askew over the maroon pullover Ron had given him the Christmas before. Harry frowned. What kind of a day was it when even a house elf looked pensive?

Ron seemed oblivious to their little friend's mood—oblivious to everything, in fact, except the chance to prove Hermione wrong. "Hey, Dobby. Settle an argument for us—"

Hermione shushed him. When the house elf drew near she asked gently, "What's wrong?"

"Winky. Winky is what's wrong." Dobby sighed. Then he flopped to the floor. "Wrong is what Winky is. All wrong."

"Maybe if she took a holiday—" Hermione ventured.

"From work?" Dobby shook his head furiously. "Work is what Winky needs. All she does is drink butterbeer and moan about the Crouches. Working for the Crouches was all Winky knew."

"See?" Ron murmured under his breath.

"What about you?" Hermione asked. "You like having a day off, don't you?"

"Indeed Dobby does." A large tear glistened at the corner of one saucer-sized eye. "Dobby would like it a lot more better with Winky."

"See?" Hermione whispered to Ron.

Harry surveyed his friends. Hermione and Ron were gearing up to renew their argument. Dobby was lost in his own misery. Across the room, Cho rose from her table.

Harry screwed his eyes shut, making a deal with himself. If Cho left with a group, he'd go visit Hagrid. If she left by herself—

Harry opened his eyes. Cho was passing through the far door alone. Hastily, he pushed back from the table. With an abrupt good-bye—unnoticed by his friends—he took off after her.

_I saw your Quidditch match against Slytherin last week. Great flying._ But at the end, Wilhelm Avery, the new Slytherin Seeker, had knocked the Golden Snitch from Cho's hand to win the game—mostly because both beaters on his team had just hit her in the head with Bludgers.

Harry hurried as the door closed behind her. _I saw your last Quidditch match. Madame Hooch must have been blind not to call foul against Slytherin._

Harry opened the door only to see one of the side doors across the entry hall swing shut. What he really wanted to say was, _I feel awful about Cedric. I feel it was my fault. He was really a fine fellow._

But when Harry exited Hogwarts and scanned the quilt of flower and herb beds that spread to the edge of the cliff, he couldn't see Cho anywhere. How could she have crossed the patio that quickly? On either side of the oak doors, massive stone statues of dragons crouched as if eager to ambush unwelcome visitors. If he could climb one, he might catch sight of Cho.

Picking a dragon, Harry began to scramble upward. Finding a foothold on a scale, lifting a hand to the curve of a folded wing, up he went. As he grabbed the gritty rock collar encircling the neck, he heard a noise above him like a sharp release of breath. His surprise almost made him lose his grip. He peered up at the narrow balcony that arched the front door. There, elbows on the stone railing, pointed chin cupped in his hands, eyes staring into the distance—for all the world as still as one of the gargoyles on the battlements—stood Snape.

The muscles in Harry's legs went weak. His toe slipped off the dragon scale, and his whole body swung away from the folded wing to hang down the sheer drop of the dragon's breast. Nervously, he cast his eyes to the porch a sickening few yards below his dangling feet. Again he glanced up—this time straight into Snape's cold black eyes.

"Potter," the thin lips mouthed without sound.

Harry's arms lost their power, and he began to fall. But as the paving stones rushed towards him, he felt himself slowing. Still, he suffered a good jolt when his feet hit ground.

Above him, Snape was leaning over the railing, stiffly pointing his black wand. Harry realized that the wizard had just saved him from once again breaking several bones in his body, an experience he was grateful not to repeat. But from the nasty glimmer in the dark eyes, he was afraid Snape had saved him for a punishment even worse.

Snape disappeared from the balcony. Harry didn't need to be told to stay put. After an agonizing wait, the front door opened and the professor stalked towards him.

For a moment, Snape looked him up and down, as if prolonging his own pleasure. Then he said the one thing Harry dreaded most: "Explain yourself."

"Uh, I—"

"Yes?"

"I—"

Miserably, Harry slid his gaze away from Snape, across the patio. There, unbelievably, was Cho—strolling up the steps with Professor Daine. The two were so close in height, so lively in their conversation, that they looked more like girlfriends than teacher and student.

When she saw him, Cho's animation drained away. She nodded vaguely. Her reaction brought a sicker feeling to Harry's stomach than the threat of Snape had done.

Beside Cho, Professor Daine brightened. "Hi, Severus. Hi, Harry."

"Good morning . . . Ariel."

Snape's hesitancy made Harry dart him a glance. The Potions master's face had gone expressionless, and his eyes had lost their evil glint.

Cho murmured, "Excuse me," then hurried into the castle. Professor Snape and Professor Daine remained.

Snape wasn't finished with him, yet Harry had the distinct impression the older wizard wished he'd go away. When neither professor broke the silence, he looked sidelong at Daine. Her shoulders had drooped.

"Well, bye, now. See you at lunch."

Snape's gaze followed her until she passed through the door. Abruptly, his eyes snapped back to Harry. "Tomorrow at sunrise, detention with Mr. Filch." With that, Snape pivoted on his heel, strode across the porch, and descended the steps.

For a moment, Harry stared. Then relief flooded him. He'd done detention with Filch before, and it wasn't so bad. Better than having points docked from Gryffindor. For once the opportunity to advance Slytherin seemed to have slipped Snape's mind.

All in all, Harry felt lucky.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Leave a note to tell me what you think. Thanks!


	3. Dragon

_**Chapter 3**_

**DRAGON**

Harry hadn't been in Filch's office since his second year at Hogwarts. The glow from the single hanging lamp was just as dim. The low-ceilinged, windowless room still smelled of fried fish. A medieval assortment of chains and manacles still criss-crossed the back wall, but he knew the jowly caretaker wouldn't threaten him with them. During his previous visit he'd discovered the man was a squib—a child of magical parents who lacked the gift himself. After he'd learned what embarrassment that fact caused the old man, Harry hadn't had the heart to bandy it about—but Filch's fear he might gave Harry a leverage he didn't mind having.

Dipping his ratty quill into a bottle of ink, Filch murmured, "Potter, Harry. Vandalism."

As the caretaker breathlessly recorded the details of yet another schoolboy crime, Harry wondered if the man ever slept. At this hour, his own eyes were barely open. Convincing his owl Hedwig to wake him before retiring to the owlery for her daytime sleep had been hard. Convincing himself to get up, even after she'd pecked him repeatedly on the nose, had been harder. Yet Filch was full of the same quivering energy he showed on his nightly haunt for out-of-bed students.

Harry let his gaze wander around the drab room, looking for some detail to keep him awake. He noticed that before Ron's twin brothers, Fred and George, had left school, they'd managed to carry out enough pranks to fill two file drawers. He was pleased to see an _M_ drawer labeled _Malfoy-Mattison_. He hoped both senior and junior Malfoys had fat folders. Then unexpected movement across the floor drew his eye. With growing disgust, Harry realized he was looking at a pack of cockroaches—a dozen at least. _Yuck. _And they were feeding on something—a chunk of pastry Filch had carelessly dropped.

Harry shivered as a creepy-crawly feeling spread along his back. Just like Filch to be self-righteously shocked by each smidgen of dirt that fell from a student's shoe yet allow _that_ on his office floor. He was surprised Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved gray cat, wasn't playing with them. But the horrible bag of bones was evidently out prowling.

"Defacing the dragons. A prime offense," Filch muttered as he wrote. "Scrubbing the dragons. A just penance."

* * *

By the time the sun rose over the beech trees, Harry had barely finished scraping the rain stains and bird droppings of who knew how many years from the fringe of spikes framing the face of the dragon on which he was perched. He'd never have guessed the marble beneath would be white. Only ten more hours or so to go, he told himself. What reasonable person would consider that fair punishment for a couple of scuff marks? But whoever said Snape and Filch were reasonable?

At first, Harry had given the caretaker credit for working along with him, scrubbing the filth that coated the dragon's tail. Then Filch had mumbled to himself, "Dumbledore will be along—any moment now. Dumbledore will be along for his morning stroll. Won't _he_ be surprised?" Harry had realized the old man was just trying to impress the headmaster.

As Harry rubbed an especially stubborn spot on the dragon's collar, he wondered about this cleaning potion Snape had provided. When Professor Daine had passed by earlier, she'd poked her wand in Filch's bucket and given it a sniff. She'd pronounced the solution unusual but had said nothing more.

Glowering at the stain, Harry decided _unusual_ was an understatement. Knowing Snape's vindictiveness, he was positive he'd made it weak on purpose. Muggles made better cleaning products.

_Maybe when Dumbledore walks by, he'll take mercy and let me go._

As that thought crossed his mind, Harry noticed far below him the silver-haired wizard himself. Sunshine glinted off his half-moon glasses as he tipped his long, white beard upward.

"Great job, men! The old girl is starting to shine."

Glancing at Filch, Harry saw gratification relax his pinched features.

"Yes, sir. Any minute, I'll see my reflection."

Dumbledore chuckled and ambled closer. "Mind if I try?"

Harry sighed and massaged an ache in his neck. Dumbledore was acting as if scrubbing statues were fun. The Headmaster of Hogwarts—the wizard identified on his Chocolate Frogs trading card as possibly the greatest of modern times—was lifting a dripping scouring pad from Filch's bucket and reaching towards the dragon's grimy foot.

When the pad touched the statue, a loud snap made Harry flinch. With growing alarm, he saw color spread from the point Dumbledore had touched up the dragon's leg. No longer white marble, the body was becoming red, scaly, and very much alive.

Filch shrieked, scrambled off the tail, and scurried to the castle door. The headmaster sprang back and slapped his robes all over, obviously searching for his wand. Before Harry could think to grab his own, he felt life rippling in the dragon's neck. The stone collar transformed into a thick leather band studded with iron spikes. As if awakening from sleep, the dragon sinuously twisted its head. Harry's bucket of cleaning solution cascaded to the patio. He grabbed the collar with both hands and clung to it.

Twice in the past Harry had had experience with a dragon. Dealing with Hagrid's baby Norwegian Ridgeback had been tricky. Handling the yellow-eyed Hungarian Horntail in the Triwizard Tournament had been challenging. But both of those times, he'd been prepared. Now, as the Chinese Fireball thrashed beneath him, all he could do was hang on.

"Petrify!" Dumbledore's command rang out above the snorts of the dragon. "Fossilize!"

Neither spell worked. As the dragon whipped its head, Harry's legs swung out in an arc. Far below, he sighted Dumbledore—solitary, composed, and armed only with his wand. The day Harry had watched wizard wranglers control four dragons, the word they'd used had been _stupefy_! But it had taken at least seven in unison to manage each beast. What could Dumbledore do alone?

Tightening one hand around the collar, Harry tried to jab his other into his robes for his own wand. If he could catch the headmaster's eye, a spell from two might work better than from one.

No such luck. Dumbledore was rushing towards the dragon. No, he was rushing towards Filch's dirty pail. Pointing his wand at the murky liquid, the wizard shouted, "Detransmogrify!" Then he tossed aside his wand, seized the bucket, and splashed the contents on the dragon.

Enraged, the Chinese Fireball bellowed, then spat out a crackling flame. She swooped her head down, mouth gaping, going for Dumbledore. For an instant, Harry thought the greatest wizard of modern times had made a horrible mistake.

Then he heard a crack, the same as he'd heard before. Veins of white snaked up the shimmering hide. The dragon roared, then stiffened. Just in time, Harry unhooked his fingers from the collar as once again it turned to stone. Without a grip, he found himself sliding down the bumpy marble back.

Hitting the patio inelegantly on his rear end, Harry felt the air whoosh out of him. With his next gasp, he started laughing. The fire-breathing monster that could have killed both Dumbledore and him was again safely made of stone. And every square inch of it was sparkling clean.

* * *

An hour later, Harry was perched on the dirty foot of the other dragon, sucking a licorice wand. When Professor Daine had recommended it, Madame Pomfrey had pursed her lips. Licorice wands were not a recognized restorative after endangerment by a dragon—unlike chocolate after contact with a Dementor. Smiling, Daine had replied, _Couldn't hurt_.

Taking a bite, Harry wondered if the professor had put a spell on the licorice. It made him feel cozy, like a wee boy listening to a fairy tale—not a gawky teen that had just survived one. Being sent to the corner with a piece of candy also made him sheepishly aware of how little he could offer to the debate going on among the four Hogwarts masters examining the amazing transforming statue. _It was over before I even took out my wand_.

Across the patio, Professor Flitwick, the Charms master, patted the marble toes. "Could be an _enchanted_ dragon. Could be Albus's flattery broke some ancient spell."

"Nonsense." Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration master, glanced down at her tiny colleague, then up at the towering statue. "If this were a real dragon, wouldn't the rock have silently faded as it emerged from enchantment? Albus and Potter both heard a snap. Definitely stone _transfigured_ into a dragon."

When McGonagall shot him a sidelong look, Harry nodded. "Snap."

Daine smiled. "Wouldn't Hogwarts's history tell you whether enchanted dragons had ever been placed here? We could go ask Professor Binns."

Both McGonagall and Flitwick grimaced. Neither, Harry thought, wanted to get the deadly dull Professor Binns started on the topic of Hogwarts's history.

Dumbledore gestured toward the statue. "I rather like it this way."

Harry had to agree it showed a certain flair. Instead of mere vigilance, the dragon projected menace—neck arched, wings unfurled, fangs bared.

The headmaster stroked his silver beard. "Enchantment or transfiguration, our main concern is to make certain it stays this way. We can't have unsuspecting passers-by confronted by dragon fire, now can we? If we each cast a spell to keep it in place, that should do the trick."

The other three professors nodded.

Harry frowned. Shouldn't their main concern be _what_ made the statue change? But Snape, the master of magic most pertinent to that point, wasn't part of the discussion. He was away for the day. On business.

Harry tossed the end of his licorice wand into a ranunculus bed. Let the ants finish it. He stared at the two empty pails lying beside the marble dragon. Whatever potion had been in them, it certainly had not been meant for cleaning.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Reviews are always read and often lead to improvements. Please tell me your reactions.


	4. Jabberwock

_**Chapter 4**_

**JABBERWOCK**

"Harry, tell me how you fought the dragon. I want to hear every detail."

Harry laid his copy of _Magic in the Far East _on his favorite Gryffindor common room desk, then turned to face Colin Creavy's wide-eyed, expectant stare. "Uh, I didn't exactly—"

"Draco Malfoy's going around telling people you were—" Colin gulped "—too scared to do anything. But don't worry. Nobody believes him."

"Well, I was kind of—but not _too._" Harry shifted his weight. "I didn't really have time to—"

Out the corner of his eye, he caught Hermione looking up from calculating star movements and petting her scruffy ginger tomcat, Crookshanks. In an annoyed tone, she said, "Colin, it was a dragon. Harry was up on its neck when it came alive. One minute it was marble. The next it was a big, ferocious, fire-breathing _dragon_. I would have fallen off and been smashed. Harry had the presence of mind to—"

"Cast a spell on it?" Colin finished hopefully.

Harry hung his head. "Actually, it was Professor Dumbledore who—"

Across the room, Harry could see Ron listening. Abruptly, his friend abandoned his chess game with Dean Thomas, preparation for an inter-house tournament coming up in January, and strolled towards them. A white bishop lifted his miter to scratch his bald spot, and three black pawns began sparring.

Ron clapped an arm around Colin's shoulders. "Let me put it another way. It was a d-r-a-g-o-n. Dumbledore was on the ground and able to pull out his wand. Harry was getting whipped about thirty feet in the air. It's not that Harry was scared—"

"Maybe I was a little—"

"He was too busy hanging on. Get the picture?"

Colin nodded. Harry saw that his former biggest fan got the picture only too well. "Glad you're all right," Colin managed, then slipped off to the far side of the room to disillusion his younger brother.

Ron sighed. He raised an index finger to Dean, _Just a minute. _Exasperated, the black queen began tapping her foot. With a playful punch to Harry's shoulder, Ron said, "Some of us were relieved to find out you're human."

Harry frowned at his best friend. "Did I ever give you the impression I didn't think I was?"

Ron shook his head, but Harry could tell he was biting back a grin. "I don't know anyone who boasts less than you do, but we all know that's because you don't have to."

Hermione was watching Harry with concern. "If for once someone had to rescue you, that's no reason to feel bad."

"I _don't_ feel bad," Harry shot back, then grimaced at his disgruntled tone. _Did_ he feel bad not being the hero? "I'm just wondering what made the dragon change in the first place."

Ron cocked his head. "Didn't everybody decide Dumbledore accidentally broke some enchantment?"

Harry glanced at the dozen Gryffindors scattered around the room, then dropped his voice. "I heard a snap."

Ron looked perplexed, but Hermione leaned forward.

"A snap? That means stone transfigured into a dragon. Accidental magic couldn't do that."

Harry heard excitement in Hermione's voice. Ron's eyes were lighting up as well. "Later," Harry whispered.

Ron winked. Harry noticed a spring in his step as he returned to his chess problem. When Hermione cast her gaze once more over her celestial computations, a smile quivered on her lips. Even Crookshanks began to purr. _No doubt about it_, Harry thought. _Adventure is calling_.

As he settled down to work, the notion crossed his mind that perhaps he should take his questions to Dumbledore. But surely discussing them first with his friends wouldn't be out of line. With that thought, he began tackling the essay questions Professor Binns had assigned on magical developments during the Yuan Dynasty. He felt more like himself than he had since morning.

* * *

After Harry finished relating his story, Ron took exactly five seconds to say, "Snape. He's always had it in for Harry."

"Now wait a minute," Hermione said. "It's a far cry from being snippy in class to trying to kill him."

Ron shrugged. "Maybe Snape wanted to scare Harry to show him up—like Sirius tried to do to him when he lured him under the Whomping Willow."

Where Snape would have found the mild-mannered Remus Lupin transformed into a werewolf, Harry finished to himself. But of course, he was positive his godfather had never wanted to actually _hurt_ his nosy classmate—just make him shriek. The amazing transforming statue was another matter. If not for Dumbledore, the dragon would have killed him.

Hermione shook her head. "Professor Snape is no schoolboy. He can show Harry up just by taking points from Gryffindor. Why risk a scandal?"

"I agree," Harry said. "If he did, his motive would have to be something larger." He stared at the embers glowing on the hearth. Inside him smoldered all the insults, all the humiliations, all the injustices Snape had ever made him suffer. Time after time, the professor had managed to clear himself of suspicion. Yet in his heart, Harry was certain the man was a villain. Yes, Dumbledore trusted him, but Dumbledore had been wrong before. He'd trusted Quirrell, hadn't he? Taking a deep breath, Harry began, "Volde—"

Looking shocked, Hermione waved her hands to shush him. Crookshanks leapt from her lap and scooted into the shadows. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must hate Professor Snape as much as he hates you. You told us the professor spied against him. And our first year at Hogwarts, he protected you against You-Know-Who."

"Because You-Know-Who had no power." Harry cleared his throat. He felt silly not calling Voldemort by his name. "Now that he seems to be on the rise, Snape might want to return to his good graces."

"He's loyal to Professor Dumbledore."

"So he says," Ron said darkly.

Hermione stood and walked to the hearth. She reached into the wood box and flung a handful of chips onto the dying fire. "Time and again you've been wrong, yet still you keep suspecting him. "

"Because Snape keeps doing suspicious things." Harry watched his friend stir the glowing embers with the poker. Their first year she'd been so distrustful of the Potions master, she'd once set his robes on fire because she'd thought he was trying to hex Harry's broom. Her refusal to even consider distrusting Snape now was frankly aggravating. "I was there. The statue transfigured the moment Professor Dumbledore applied cleaning potion—the cleaning potion prepared by Snape."

"Aha!" Hermione strode back to him and flounced back into her chair. "You and Filch used that potion for hours without making the dragon come alive."

"Granted." Harry had mulled over this point since tossing aside Professor Daine's licorice. "The spell used to make the potion included some sort of trigger—the angle of the sun, the spot where the solution was applied, the number of times we applied it. Snape's lectured about such things. The fact remains, I heard the snap the instant Professor Dumbledore touched the sponge to the marble. And the only way he could change the dragon back was by adding a new spell to that same potion."

"You've got to admit, it's suspicious." Ron gestured toward the fireplace. "And where there's smoke—"

"Maybe. But not necessarily."

"Granted again." Harry sighed. "I wish we could try Veritaserum. _That_ would settle the question." He recalled the year before how Snape's truth potion had forced Barty Crouch to reveal everything he'd done for Voldemort, including murder his own father. Using truth potion on Snape would be a fair turnabout. "But if we did, it wouldn't matter if we found him innocent. When he came to his senses and realized what we'd done, he'd kill us."

Leaning her chin in her hand, Hermione gazed at the flickering fire. "_If_ he realized it."

Despite the shadows, Harry could see a bemused look on Hermione's face that said she was about to favor them with just the arcane magical tidbit they needed.

"Professor Snape would never sit still for a memory spell," she began, "but sneaking him a memory-altering potion—"

"Yes?" Ron prompted.

"—would be completely unethical."

Groaning, Ron ran a hand through his thatch of red hair.

Hermione gave him one of her headmistressy stares. "They have a deleterious effect on the mental processes. You _were_ listening during Defense Against the Dark Arts, weren't you?"

Reluctantly, Harry and Ron nodded.

"Mind you, this is only theoretical . . . . If one started with a light sleep potion, followed it with a truth potion, and ended with a dream potion, with luck the subject would believe the _whole_ experience had been a dream."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Great idea, old chum. Just one problem." He smiled sweetly at Hermione. "How do you get him to drink Veritaserum after you've put him to sleep?"

"One doesn't. One combines all three potions into a sequential time-release formula that the subject has to drink only once."

"Time release? Like cold capsules?" Harry remembered seeing the 12-hour Muggle medicines advertised on television. "_That_ might work: drowsiness, truthfulness, then pleasant dreams."

"Not _pleasant_ dreams," Hermione said. "Not necessarily. What you'd want would be _interesting_ dreams—ones that fill the sleeper's mind, obscure any inkling he'd been questioned. Everyone is different, of course. One person's interesting dream would be another's dull one—and another's nightmare."

"So," Ron said, "you have to make a completely different dream potion, depending on the vict—uh—subject?"

"Actually, only one ingredient is different—a spoonful of skin shed by an animal of the genus phantasmagoria. If someone were going to make a dream potion for Professor Snape—and I'm not saying I would—the best choice would be . . ." her voice trailed off as her eyes narrowed thoughtfully ". . . Bandersnatch."

"Bandersnatch? Frumious bandersnatch? Like in the poem?" Harry had sneaked Dudley's copy of the Alice stories into his cupboard during one particularly long banishment. His cousin, partial to comic books without much dialogue, had never missed it.

Hermione nodded. "You probably used to think hippogriffs and unicorns were imaginary. I know I did. Would you be surprised to learn that Lewis Carroll's poem is a mnemonic device for remembering the creatures used in dream potions?"

Harry grinned. "I've long since stopped being surprised by anything I learn at Hogwarts."

"The beasts in the first part are for mild-mannered people. Neville, for example, might be happiest with a mome rath dream. Our professor would need more challenge. Of the beasts in the adventurers' part, the bandersnatch is the sly one—a Slytherin's cup of tea."

"What would you say I am?" Harry asked.

"Jabberwock, definitely."

"And me?" Ron tensed as if bracing for disappointment.

Hermione shot him a quick glance. "Oh, jabberwock, too, of course."

Ron sat up straighter. "So, is shed bandersnatch skin available by owl postal order? I don't recall seeing it for sale in Hogsmeade."

"By special license only—and a good thing too. Think of the potential for misuse! The Ministry of Magic decreed that the resources to make dream potions belong in the hands of Certified Public Concoctionists only."

Harry smiled at Ron. "That means Snape would definitely have some."

Hermione raised a hand palm out. "I am _not_ sneaking into Professor Snape's office again."

"I wouldn't dream of asking." Harry settled back contentedly. "I have another agent in mind, one who's been begging to do me a favor."

Ron frowned. "It better not be my little sister."

"Goodness, no." Harry felt a blush creep up his cheeks. "This person has dipped into Snape's private stores before without getting caught. He can come and go at will. Nobody would ever suspect him."

"Come on," Ron said. "You're taking as long to get to the point as Hermione."

She glared at him.

"I mean Dobby." An instant after Harry said the name, his mouth fell open. Across the common room, the little elf himself stood quivering in the shadows, looking as if he'd been waiting anxiously for hours. Harry could have sworn Dobby hadn't been there before.

"I thought you told me nobody can Apparate inside Hogwarts," Ron whispered to Hermione.

"Nobody human," she answered weakly.

"What have you heard?" Harry asked.

"Enough, sir!" Dobby broke into a wide grin at being noticed. "Harry Potter needs help! Whatever you need, sir, Dobby is your elf!"

"Well, we need a spoonful of shed bandersnatch, uh—" Harry gulped. His little friend was now barreling towards him at top speed. An instant before the elf would have rammed affectionately into his stomach, Harry caught him by the shoulders.

Dobby beamed up at him with wide, tennis-ball eyes. "What else, sir? What else? Anything Harry Potter lacks, Dobby can find!"

"No," Hermione said. "It'd be too risky. If you were caught, you'd lose your position. You know the only way you could get employment elsewhere would be to give up your freedom."

"Sorry, Dobby. She thinks the job too difficult—" Ron glanced sidelong at Hermione "—for an elf."

Harry felt Dobby's shoulders droop.

"Too difficult for anyone," Hermione said irritably. "I don't see you volunteering. You know that even if you managed to not get expelled, it'd ruin your chances to become a prefect."

Ron folded his arms. "As if I want to follow in Brother Percy's footsteps."

"And Brother Bill's. You know you do."

Harry saw Dobby dart his glance between Ron and Hermione like someone watching Quaffles at a Quidditch match.

Harry released Dobby and stepped back to look at him. "If we planned it right, there'd be no way Snape would catch Dobby in the act. And if he discovers afterwards that his stores have been skimmed, he'd most likely suspect me."

"As if that makes it all right. Remember how Professor Snape threatened to give _you_ Veritaserum last year over missing potion ingredients? It's too risky. I'm not helping you make Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder, and that's final."

"Oh, Hermione," Ron muttered, "don't be such a Muggle."

Harry grimaced, realizing Ron's error even before Hermione jumped to her feet. When she did, she whirled to glare at both of them.

"For your information, Mr. Pureblood Weasley, my mother, my father, all four of my grandparents, all of my aunts, all of my uncles, and all of my cousins _are_ Muggles. I would thank you not to use that word as an insult."

Hermione stomped over to her favorite desk and began collecting her things. Dobby hurried after her. Standing on tiptoe, he helped roll up her parchments. Soon, she was weighed down with books and notes for seven compulsory subjects, four options, and an unknown number of personal interests.

She cast an angry look over her shoulder. "And furthermore, the polite term is _magically challenged_." With that, she marched off in high dudgeon to the staircase to the girls' dormitory. Her ginger cat strutted after her, both his squashed nose and his crooked tail raised primly in the air.

Dobby hung his head, crestfallen at having his services rejected. A moment later, Harry realized he'd vanished.

Harry scowled at Ron. "Nice going."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Please leave a note on what worked and what didn't. Thanks!


	5. Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder

_**Chapter 5**_

**SOMNOLEVERITAPHANTASMAGORIA POWDER**

By Monday's session of Potions, Harry had appealed to Hermione so many times that he could say the mouthful of a potion without stuttering. "The Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder is your idea, Hermione. Ron and I can't think of a better one. Nothing else will settle the question. Won't you please help us make it?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes darting meaningfully toward the Potions master's office door. As the professor swept into the dungeon classroom, Harry sealed his lips. Snape's black eyes scanned the class, hunting for truants. Finding everyone present, he looked disappointed—until he focused on Harry. When the professor smiled, Harry's mouth went dry.

"Ah, our resident celebrity. Nothing pleases me more than a tale of bravery and quick wits. Tell the class, Potter, just how was it you vanquished the dragon and saved Hogwarts?"

Draco Malfoy and his buddies exploded into chortles, sniggers, and guffaws. Wilhelm Avery smirked. Harry tensed every muscle in his body to keep from squirming in embarrassment or jumping over his desk to slam his fist into Snape's sneering face.

Then a barely audible whisper made the ridicule worthwhile: "I'll help you make the potion."

* * *

A week later, they'd arranged everything. Hermione had researched the necessary ingredients for Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder and determined that three were obtainable only by passing the four-day examination for Certified Public Concoctionist or sneaking into Snape's office.

Ron glanced down at the list as Dobby read it. "Hey, there're four items here."

Dobby craned his head back to look up at Ron. "That's right, sir. Sphinx piss and candori root are for truth powder. Bandersnatch skin flakes are for dream powder and—"

Hermione hurried over and retrieved her scrap of parchment. "You've obviously memorized it. Time to get going. Ron, Harry, and I have to be in class before you start—in case we need to distract the professor from going into his office."

Harry noted a flush on Hermione's cheeks, then shrugged. She was always nervous when they ventured outside the rules. Turning to wish Dobby luck, he found the elf was gone.

"I'd like to learn to do that," Ron said.

* * *

Poking his head into Snape's dungeon, Harry surveyed the dank walls lined with jars of unidentifiable pickled animals and the rough flagstone floor stained with countless generations of scholars' failed potions. Between classes, the rows of acid-riddled stools and desks were deserted, but a rotten egg smell still hung in the air.

Quickly, he stepped back and motioned Hermione and Ron up the stairs. "We're early," he whispered. He wanted to add, _Snape would find that suspicious_, but before leaving Gryffindor they'd agreed to keep their conversation discreet. Who knew what magical listening devices the old Slytherin might have secreted around his lair?

When they were halfway up the flight of stairs, the three friends stopped and fidgeted with their cauldrons. Finally, Hermione asked, "How's your chess coming along? You'll have stiff competition in the tournament."

Ron shrugged. "Last Saturday, I beat Katie seven times in a row. Her side got so bloodied, I might have to buy her a whole new set of white pieces."

Harry thought of how animated and individual wizard chessmen looked. Repeatedly, Ron had assured him they only _seemed_ real, but Harry hated to think of them as injured and replaced. Hermione obviously accepted that they weren't actually alive. Otherwise, she'd be niggling them to join a wizard chess piece liberation movement.

Instead, she said, "I wish Hogwarts had electricity. I have a chess program on my computer at home that might be more of a challenge."

Ron looked interested. "I've seen pictures of computers, but I can't imagine how they play games. I know Muggle chess pieces don't move by themselves." he frowned. "Do ou need a special computer? One with hands?"

Hermione gave Harry a look that said, _You explain it to him._

Over Hermione's shoulder, Harry noticed Wilhelm Avery sauntering down the stairs with a couple of other Slytherins. Son of the Death Eater Harry had watched Voldemort torment with a Cruciatus Curse the year before, Wilhelm had previously attended Durmstrang. His father had transferred him after Karkaroff disappeared and the Hungarian Ministry of Magic appointed a new headmaster with no whiff of dark wizardry about him. Harry supposed that Avery senior had thought lessons with Snape would be the next best thing.

Catching Harry's eye, Wilhelm gave him a smirk that showed he'd heard Ron's question. Instead of tossing out his own gibe, he nudged Draco. Obligingly, the little pain-in-the-rear strutted down the steps towards them.

"Yeah, Weasley, and you need ones with feet to run all the errands your Mother has to do because your family doesn't have a house elf."

Harry gripped Ron's shoulder. "Come on." More classmates came trooping down the stairs. Neville clutched his books and parchments tightly to his chest as he edged along the wall to avoid the Slytherins. Wilhelm purposefully bumped him on his way to whisper something into Draco's ear.

When Ron turned away, Harry was grateful. After four years of being taunted, his friend had grown too mature to respond to Slytherin half-witticisms.

Then Draco flung out one more. "And for all those times your Mother gets bored with your Father, there's a super-special computer with _everything_ she needs."

Ron went rigid. Then he growled. Dropping her cauldron, Hermione threw her arms around him. Harry didn't know whether to help her hold Ron back or have a go at Draco himself.

"Weasley!" The menacing whisper cut through the crowd of pupils piling up on the steps.

Ron trembled under Harry's hand. Then he sucked in a sharp breath. In an admirably calm voice, he answered, "Present."

Relaxing, Hermione retrieved her cauldron. Harry looked down the stairs to see Snape filling his doorway. The shrewd black eyes regarded them coolly—calculating the potential to dock points from Gryffindor. With a scowl, the Slytherin retreated to his dungeon.

Ron leaned close to Harry's ear. "Did you see Snape's hair? He's discovered a fantastic new potion. It's called _shampoo_."

Suppressing a grin, Harry joined the jostle of students. As he and Ron passed, Crabbe made an obscene gesture. They ignored him and threaded their way to their desks. Harry wrinkled his nose against the sulfurous reek. He knew he'd get used to it in a minute.

Under Snape's chilly gaze, the class assembled quietly and quickly. After their first Double Potions session four years before, the professor had never again taken roll. He knew everyone's name, he knew each house, and he knew how to discipline a lame excuse. So far this year, nobody had skipped.

"Today's topic is liberating potions," Snape began in his silky soft voice, "potions that unlock, unravel, unfetter, disencumber, or transform. Like memory potions, their purpose is to alter the workings of the mind."

As usual, Hermione rushed her quill across her parchment, anxiously keeping pace with Snape's words. In Potions, Harry always listened attentively, but he saved his note taking for tricks of the trade, obscure references, and the occasional threat. Clearly, cauldrons were not going to be his life's work. His main concern was passing.

When Snape glowered at him, Harry resisted the urge to feign writing. If irritated, the professor was more likely to hover around harassing them during the second half of the session when he'd have them brew their own. To ensure Dobby time to find all of the Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria ingredients, they had to keep Snape out of his office.

"The mind is a castle," the Potions master resumed, "with more halls and chambers, towers and dungeons, staircases and passages, twists and turns than Hogwarts. When the soul is liberated, it constantly builds and explores. When a soul is damaged, it retreats to a familiar corner, bars the doors, nails up barriers, and blocks out the light."

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Neville abruptly stop his frantic scribbling. Glancing sidelong, he saw concentration on his fellow Gryffindor's face sufficient to record Snape's words more fully than his pen ever could. In a flash, Harry knew why. _Liberating potions_. Neville was wondering whether such a thing could break down the madness that kept his parents in an asylum. If Snape _did_ turn out to be loyal, Harry thought, perhaps he could be persuaded to try.

"As with all potions that influence thoughts, mere ingestion is not sufficient. A skilled practitioner is required to lead the subject through the mind's traps and mazes. For a liberating potion to achieve its purpose, a gentle guide is necessary."

Harry sighed. _A gentle guide. _So much for Snape helping Neville's mum and dad.

At an unexpected noise from the back of the room, Snape looked up. When the professor's face didn't twist into a scowl, Harry knew the odd sound hadn't come from a student. Glancing back, he saw Professor Daine. Again he heard a muffled cry, but obviously not from her. As usual, her smile was sunny. Her golden hair shone like a halo in the gloom of Snape's dungeon.

"Am I late, or am I early?"

"Your timing will do," Snape responded curtly.

* * *

**Auhtor's Note: **So, what do you think? Please review!


	6. Elves

_**Chapter 6**_

**ELVES**

Facing front, Harry saw the Potions master hold up a beaker brimming with a pearlescent substance. "As part of the headmaster's efforts to harmonize the branches of magic, Professor Daine has come to demonstrate the liberating powers of Elixir Autarky—a libation from the swamps of—"

"Mississippi," Daine offered in her pleasant, lilting voice.

"Quite. I have concocted it to her specifications. She has promised to bring a subject to see if it works."

Snape performed a sarcastic little bow and swept from his lectern toward his office door.

"Oh, no," Ron breathed.

Harry darted him a chagrined look. Some luck. They'd picked the one lesson of the year Snape was turning over to another teacher. Since they hadn't begun mixing potions, their cauldrons were empty. What distraction could they create?

Once more, sobbing drifted from the back of the room. Snape stopped to stare. Swiveling, Harry saw Professor Daine strolling between the desks, leading a child by the hand. No, not a child. Winky.

As professor and elf passed, Wilhelm sneered and Draco snickered. Beside Harry, Hermione whispered, "Brilliant."

"You didn't tell me your subject wasn't human." As usual, Snape's soft voice could be heard across the room.

Turning, Daine smiled. "Elf or human, the principle is the same." She gave Winky's head a comforting pat. "She just needs a smaller amount."

Instead of opening his office door, Snape pressed his back against it. Silently, Harry cheered. The Potions master's curiosity about whether his mixture would work on an elf had won over his disdain for his fellow professor.

"Winky," Professor Daine began gently. "I explained the purpose of this elixir to you and what we hope it might accomplish. Do you still consent to participate in this experiment?"

Blankly, Winky stared around the room, clasping her thin arms across her chest. With consternation, Harry saw she was wearing the same skirt and blouse as when he'd first seen her at Hogwarts—over a year ago—except now, their blue color was barely recognizable through the food and filth that soiled them. Her unkempt hat sat crumpled on her head, precariously held in place by her tall, pointed ears. When at last the elf answered, it was in a barely perceptible squeak: "If you is wanting me to."

Daine bowed low to meet the elf eye-to-eye. "Who are you?" she asked in her friendly drawl.

"Winky."

"What are you?"

"A house elf."

Daine paused. "_Why_ are you?"

"Winky lives to serve the Crouches. Mr. Barty. Mrs. Barty. Master Barty. The Crouches is needing Winky!" Suddenly the elf wailed. "But they is gone! They is all gone!"

"The Crouches are gone. Winky is here."

"Winky is nowhere. There is no why to Winky."

The elf buried her face in the professor's black robes. She abandoned herself to weeping so tragic, Harry felt pity swell his heart. After so long in the haven of Hogwarts, how could she still be mourning? He fought an urge to jump up and hug her. Then she let out a screech that set his teeth on edge.

Slowly, Professor Daine straightened, all the while patting Winky on the back. Gazing around the room, she asked, "Does anyone know the meaning of autarky?"

Not Harry. Glancing at Hermione, he saw her raise her hand. When no one else did, she dropped it. Four years of classmates' dirty looks had taught her the unpopularity of being a know-it-all. _Too bad_. Harry was just mouthing, "Go ahead," when Snape answered.

"_Autarky_. Independence, self-governance, self-sufficiency. In short, the antithesis of the house elf."

A belly laugh rumbled out of Goyle, though his befuddled expression said he hadn't understood half the words. At Snape's icy glare, he seemed to choke. In a low voice, the professor murmured, "A point from Slytherin."

Harry's jaw dropped.

Smiling, Daine lifted the beaker Snape had left on the lectern. "The very antithesis. And that's why we call this magic." She lowered the elixir to Winky's mouth. "Mind you, just a sip now."

Winky stuck her bright red tongue into the pearly goo. Her grimace said it tasted horrid. Obediently, she leaned forward for a quick gulp. In a split second, her head wobbled. She'd fallen asleep on her feet.

Professor Daine set the beaker down and drew her wand from her robes. With a graceful swish, she inscribed a circle of shadow around Winky's bowed head. The professor drew a deep breath that lifted her shoulders and began chanting in a voice lower and more resonant than Harry had heard her use before.

"Alone, deserted, Winky stands in a ring. Alone, deserted, a part of no thing."

Glancing sidelong, Harry saw Snape gazing intently at witch and elf.

Professor Daine continued. "Winky was good. She did what she should. Winky stayed true. She has the right to pursue—" Flourishing her wand, Daine showered the elf with silver sparks that infused the circle with light. Again her voice rang out, "Happiness!"

Winky trembled. Harry felt a cheerful quiver deep inside him. In softer tones, the professor led the elf into a singsong exchange. With each round, the circle grew brighter. Instead of rotten eggs, the scent of orange blossoms drifted through the air.

"Who was good?"

"Winky was good."

"Who forsook Winky?"

"Mr. Barty forsook Winky."

"Who did what she should?"

"Winky did what she should."

"Who was bad?"

"Master Barty was bad."

"Who stayed true?"

"Winky stayed true." Whimpering, the elf hung her head.

Quietly, Daine said, "Leaving nowhere, opening your eyes to somewhere, can be hard. Will you give up one heartache, only to find another? If you love again, will you be betrayed?"

Tears dribbled from under Winky's lashes. The circle of light dimmed.

"Winky must bind herself to her own house. And it's a grander, a lighter, an airier house than any she's ever seen. This house will never kick her out. This house is hers forever—the house of Winky."

"The house of Winky?" the elf repeated doubtfully.

"Yes'm. With this house behind her, Winky can range far and wide. Nothing can daunt Winky."

"Even an elf . . . has the right to pursue . . . happiness?"

"Yes'm, indeed."

Listening to Ariel Daine, Harry felt blissful expectations welling up inside him. Golden light filled the dungeon, and the walls sparkled. The air smelled of a spring garden opening under the sun. He sensed great joy just around the corner. Anything was possible.

Eager to share his exhilaration, Harry glanced at Ron and found him grinning. On his other side, Hermione held her hands over her mouth, struggling to contain herself. Harry darted wondering looks all around the room and found his classmates doing the same. When he met Draco's eyes, the Slytherin almost smiled. Wilhelm alone kept a bored sneer. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle giggled uncontrollably.

Apart from everyone, Snape stood stiff as a statue. What little color he possessed had drained from his narrow cheeks. Only his eyes looked alive. Instead of cold, they seemed filled with a dark turbulence.

Professor Daine twirled her wand around Winky's head, sheathing her from head to toe in a rainbow of light. The elf rose on tiptoes as high as she could. Then she shimmied. The rainbow cylinder shattered, glittered, then vanished.

Opening her eyes, Winky squealed, "Even an elf has the right to pursue happiness!"

Hermione burst into applause. All around the dungeon, schoolmates joined her. Even some of the Slytherins nodded their approval. Professor Snape whirled away, yanked open his office door, and slammed it behind him.

Frowning, Harry glanced at Professor Daine. As he watched her smile fade, a knot of resentment formed in his stomach. They'd all just witnessed a wonderful thing. How typical of Snape to act superior to it. His crassness knew no bounds.

Daine exhaled slowly, then quickly returned her attention to the elf. "What's the purpose of your life?"

Winky blinked her enormous round eyes as if she'd never seen the world before. "Pursuing happiness."

"And how're you going to do that?"

Winky jumped up and down, tittering and clapping her hands. "By being the bestest, busiest, workingest house elf Headmaster Dumbledore has ever seen!"

Hermione groaned. Glancing at her, Harry saw her shake her head, then pick up her quill as Professor Daine began listing points to remember about liberating potions.

"Elixir Autarky is a particularly tricky one," she added. "We were lucky to have a Potions master of Professor Snape's skill and precision to concoct it."

Snape didn't hear her compliment. He remained absent for the rest of the session.

As they left the dungeon, Harry noticed that almost everyone retained at least a faint smile of good will. Then Wilhelm elbowed him aside on his way up the steps.

Ron shrugged, then smiled at Hermione. "What did you think of class? Now that's what I call House Elf Liberation."

She pursed her lips. "Maybe. I don't know. I wonder what Dobby will say."

_Dobby_. Harry sucked in a sharp breath. He'd forgotten all about their trusty agent. When Snape burst into his office, had the little elf already completed his mission? They had to wait until midnight to find out.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Your response is welcome. Please review!


	7. Cauldrons

_**Chapter 7**_

**CAULDRONS**

"Dobby is bad. Bad, bad, bad." Once more, the elf banged his head against the damp tile floor of Moaning Myrtle's lavatory. Harry patted his friend's back, then lifted his eyes to the spook circling above them. Her vaporous features waxed and waned between annoyance at their midnight disturbance and glee at seeing someone more distressed than she was.

"There now," Hermione soothed, "it was for a good cause."

"And you made a brilliant job of it, too," Ron added.

The elf groaned. "The better for you to hoodwink the magnificent, munificent, multi-talented Professor Snape! Why didn't Dobby realize the wizard he was? Oh, bad Dobby!"

On hands and knees, he scrambled under a stall door. Before Harry could reach him, Myrtle wafted through and obligingly flushed the toilet. When Ron swung the door open, the elf was half-submerged and gurgling in the churning water. Hastily, Harry and Ron pulled him out. This time they each took an arm to restrain him.

Dobby spluttered. Then he started up again. "Professor Severus Snape is a wizard most noble and benevolent. Professor Severus Snape has liberated Winky."

"Actually," Ron said, "it was Professor Daine who—"

"Oh, Professor Ariel Daine is most benevolent and noble, too. But Winky was so lost, it took _both_ of them to save her." Dobby let out a high wail. "And all the while they were freeing her, Dobby was burgling him!" The elf sunk his bared teeth into his own hand.

Hermione grabbed his long pointed ears and yanked him back up. "Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder can be liberating, too. Being guided to admitting the truth can be very helpful to some people."

When she finished, a dawning look came over Dobby. He glanced from one to the other of his human friends. "You want to make Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder to _help_ Professor Severus Snape?"

Pasting a big grin on his face, Ron nodded.

Hermione bit her lower lip. "It _could_ help him."

Harry crossed two fingers behind his back. "Absolutely."

Like magic, Dobby's anguish vanished in a dazzling smile. "Forgive Dobby for doubting you—Harry Potter who quelled the Dark Lord and threw Dobby a sock, Ronald Weasley who gave Dobby his favorite pullover, and Hermione Granger who struggles to free all house elves. None of you would ever do anything dishonorable." He lifted his jutting chin. "Liberating Professor Severus Snape. That _is_ a good cause."

Sidelong, Harry saw Myrtle raise a ghostly eyebrow.

"So—" Hermione smiled brightly "—could we have the ingredients?"

As Dobby rummaged through various pockets in his soggy, mismatched jacket, vest, shirt, and trousers, Ron leaned close to Harry's ear. "Another three-week potion. I hope that's not too long a wait to _liberate_ Snape of the truth."

Harry shrugged. "I'll watch my step."

Beaming, Dobby handed over the ingredients. Hermione laid the candori root, the pouch of bandersnatch skin flakes, and the tiny vial of sphinx piss on her lap. A fourth package she slipped into her robes.

"This concoction has three parts," she said. "The sleep portion will only take an hour to brew and another eleven to recrystallise into powder. I should be done in time to catch a long nap before tonight's party."

_Party_. With so many other things on his mind, Harry had forgotten tonight was Hallowe'en.

"Twelve hours!" Myrtle moaned. "She's not staying with me for twelve hours!"

Recalling the collection of ghosts, specters, and phantoms Hogwarts attracted on this special day, Harry smiled. "You won't even be here. So many friends will be dropping by, you'll be flying all over the castle."

"Friends?" Myrtle's misty face contorted. "Friends? Friends? Friends?" With each repetition, her lament grew more ghastly until she dwindled to a wraith that promptly flushed itself down the toilet.

Ron peered down the whirlpool, then cocked an eyebrow at Harry. "She really told you Hogwarts's toilets empty into the lake? Don't the merfolk complain?"

Harry spread his hands in a gesture of _That's what she said_. Relieved the dearly departed _had_ departed, he turned to Hermione. "You're certain it's all right to just leave the truth potion simmering?"

"Yes—except during the new moon."

"And the dream potion—?"

"—needs to be stirred every four hours."

Ron grunted.

"And we need to repeat an incantation each time we stir it, so we can't just enchant a spoon to do it for us. I'll drop by during the day. There's so little privacy with a ghost flitting about and the place is so often flooded that nobody really uses this lavatory—but if someone _did_ happen to see me come in, it wouldn't seem so odd."

Ron sighed. "Harry and I will trade off the before-and-after midnight hours. If Myrtle pesters me, I'll tell her how pretty she looks. She'll flush herself out of sight."

_Poor thing_, Harry thought. She _was _rather lonely. Maybe she'd enjoy telling him what Hogwarts had been like in the forties, before the basilisk struck her dead.

"Don't forget Dobby," the elf piped up. "Give me all the times nobody else can make. Anything to help Professor Severus Snape."

"Uh, right," Ron said.

"After three weeks, we'll recrystallise the truth and the dream potions. Then it should take an evening to convert the powders into time-release granules. Then we'll be ready—"

"—for the biggest challenge of all," Harry said. "Getting Snape to drink it."

The elf yanked Harry's sleeve. "Dobby can help! Every evening Dobby leaves a glass of amontillado in Professor Severus Snape's office. He never sees Dobby. He'll fall asleep at his desk."

"All nice and cozy, ready to be liberated." Ron winked at Harry.

Harry winked back. He felt great. They had a plan. They were doing something. "Concocting... _please_, let's call it SVP... It's going to be hard work—harder work than anything in Potions—but I think it'll be worth it."

Ron grinned. "Too bad making SVP can't count for coursework."

* * *

An hour later, Harry surveyed the three cauldrons he and Ron had helped Hermione set up in the second-to-last stall. Dobby was lucky he'd left early. Like a schoolmistress, Hermione had insisted they each light one of the waterproof fires necessary to keep the potions simmering, prepare a portion of the ingredients, and recite the details of each step. Giving their scheme an aura of the educational made her feel better, so Harry obliged. He just hoped she wouldn't spring a recap test on them later.

Ron rolled his eyes. "At least this potion doesn't involve me turning into Crabbe."

"Or me Goyle." Glancing at Hermione, Harry grinned. "You looked charming as Millicent Bulstrode's black cat."

Ignoring him, Hermione ground her pestle three more times into her palm-sized mortar and inspected the wormwood she'd powdered. "Just a smidgen. This draft is for twilight sleep, not living death."

Since they'd agreed Harry would be the one to interrogate Snape, he pinched the wormwood and sprinkled it over the steaming cauldron, intoning "Somnole" as Hermione had instructed. A hissing purple fume uncoiled from the surface and undulated snake-like toward the ceiling.

"Good," Hermione said. "That's all for you two. Get along to bed."

Ron yawned. "You'll be bored out of your mind staying here twelve hours without us to hassle you."

"I'll catch some winks." Hermione reached into her sleeve, then flung a silvery web above their heads. "My mum bought me a Little Nemo Hammock in Diagon Alley."

"Your mother shops in Diagon Alley?" Harry asked in surprise.

"She couldn't get in there unless she's made some magical friends," Ron said.

Hermione shrugged. Then she flourished her wand, extinguishing the flames they'd conjured to light the stall, leaving only the blue fires flickering beneath the cauldrons.

Harry pulled his invisibility cloak from a deep pocket, then arranged it over Ron and himself. Since Hermione wouldn't be leaving until daytime, she wouldn't need it. Now that they were fifteen instead of eleven, it _was_ rather hard to fit it over all three of them. As Harry opened the door, he heard Hermione softly chanting. Somewhere in the dark reaches of Hogwarts, cats were yowling.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Please review! Much appreciated.


	8. Owls

_**Chapter 8**_

**OWLS**

When Harry and Ron stepped over the portrait hole to leave Gryffindor tower at eight that evening, they were greeted by the ghostly grin of Nearly Headless Nick. "Fine night, my lads. Best of the year, don't you think?"

Harry returned a faint smile. Hallowe'en was the day, 503 years earlier, when Sir Nicholas de Mimsey-Porpington had had his ill-fated encounter with an executioner's dull axe. Their second year at Hogwarts they'd attended his deathday party out of curiosity. One evening of rotting food and howling music had been enough. But if Nick invited them, he wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by saying no.

"Wish you could come to my deathday celebration, but this year it's strictly spirits—almost axed spirits, actually." He jiggled his partially attached head above his wide Elizabethan ruff. "None of that hoity-toity headless bunch. But I'll be whisking by your party later. Special invitation."

As Nick faded, Harry shot Ron a relieved smile. Then more Gryffindors crawled out the portrait hole after them, and together they made their way to the feast.

* * *

Entering the Great Hall, Harry saw that the theme was _The Haunted Woods_—complete with towering trees. Some were skeletons, struck by lightening. Others dripped with phosphorescent moss. A spectral wind rattled the jack-o'-lanterns and corn dolls that hung everywhere. From the eerie chorus of hoots, Harry surmised that the Hogwarts owlery had perched throughout the rasping branches. Peering around, he spied ghost-white Hedwig blinking solemnly from a hole in a dead oak. As usual, Ron's flibbertigibbet Pigwidgeon was fluttering about, vainly seeking Hedwig's attention.

"If we ignore her, maybe she won't come hover around my head," Ron whispered, then poked Harry's arm. "Hey. Look at Daine."

Turning, Harry saw a vision hesitating on the threshold. Ariel Daine wore a fitted white gown that flared from her waist in an abundance of lace and ribbons. Silver beads twinkled with every movement. White ribbons festooned her wand. Instead of fluffy blonde, her hair was a mass of red curls crowned by silver stars.

"Oh, goodness." She stared at the roomful of black robes. "Am I the only one who wore a costume?"

Harry heard Ron suck in his breath. Evidently, his friend felt as he did—anxious to rescue their sweetest teacher from embarrassment but at a loss for how to do it.

Then Professor Flitwick scurried forward. "My dear child, so charming! Glinda, isn't it? Good witch of the North."

"Of the South, actually, as Mr. Baum wrote her. Hollywood moved Glinda to the North." Professor Daine smiled sheepishly. "I must look a sight. Do I have time to change?"

"Nonsense," Professor Sprout soothed, bustling up beside her. "Next year I vote we all wear fancy-dress."

Harry watched the two older professors shepherd the sparkling good witch towards the High Table. The other staff smiled at her. Only Snape stared with eyebrows askance.

Relieved, Harry turned to the Gryffindor table and waved to Hermione. Quickly, he zigzagged with Ron through a copse of phantom birches. Taking their seats, they leaned close to their friend. "Do you have it?"

She grinned and patted her side pocket. "The other two are brewing nicely. Someone needs to slip in at ten to give the dreams a stir."

"I'm ready," Harry said. Then _oohs_ and _ahhs_ around the hall drew his attention to the serving platters. His housemates were already piling their plates with apple-and-walnut salad, beef brisket, grilled trout, fried potatoes, kale with rosemary, baked yams, roasted chestnuts, wheat cakes, corn muffins, gooseberry jelly, hazelnut tarts, and mounds of pumpkin fritters.

A long while later, after dedicated feasting had given way to contented sighs, Headmaster Dumbledore rose from the High Table. "As all of you know, music sparks a special joy in my heart. This Hallowe'en, I have prevailed upon Professor Ariel Daine to introduce Hogwarts to a delightful custom from across the sea—square dancing."

Professor Daine stood, took a deep breath, smiled and raised her wand. In a moment, three black boxes, strung together by black wire, burst through the Great Hall's double doors, whizzed over their heads, and settled on the table before her. Harry stood and craned his neck, as did several of his classmates. She touched a button on the squat box between the two tall ones, and a tray slid out. Spinning it slowly, she placed five shimmering disks around it. When she pushed the tray back, music filled the room.

"Wicked!" Ron breathed. "What _is_ that apparatus?"

Hermione groaned. "A CD player, Ron—a non-magical, battery-operated CD player. But what on earth is that noise?"

Except for an occasional discordant rendition of the school song, music at Hogwarts was rare. But Harry had enjoyed what Uncle Vernon called _that racket_ coming from the neighbors back on Privet Drive. And an occasional musical assembly in Muggle primary school had taught him to identify instruments. "I guess it's square dance music." He could pick out twanging guitars, a banjo, a bass, a quavering organ, and half a dozen fiddles screeching like banshees.

Professor Daine stood and walked around the High Table. With a twitch of her wand, she drew the floating candles into a double line down the center of the hall. "We'll start with ten volunteers—two staff and a boy and girl from each house. Don't worry. Everyone who wants will get a turn."

From the Hufflepuff table, Barden Grandstaff immediately raised his hand, followed by Hannah Abbott. Giggling, Ginny Weasley stepped forward with Dean Thomas. The two Ravenclaws Harry didn't know. At the Slytherin table nobody volunteered. When Professor Daine flashed them a dazzling smile, Millicent Bulstrode's ham-like hand slowly rose. She jabbed a pint-sized first-year next to her, and Slytherin had their pair. Professors Flitwick and Sprout completed the ten. Professor Daine set everyone in two facing lines, flourished her wand, sang some words, and off they went—skipping towards each other, joining hands, twirling, and passing. As they danced, Professor Daine called out their steps.

"She's enchanting their hands and feet," Hermione observed.

Ron arched an eyebrow. "Well spotted. You don't think that hag Millicent could manage that dosado and swing-your-partner stuff on her own, do you?"

Harry pushed back from the table. "I'm going to go watch." Reaching the crowd in the center of the hall, he squeezed in beside Professor McGonagall. Surprisingly, his stern housemistress was clapping in time to the music. Glancing around, Harry saw that all of the staff had left their table to fraternize with the students. Except Snape, of course. He sat alone, his cold eyes fixed on Ariel Daine like a hunter sighting a swan.

Then a flapping overhead drew Harry's gaze upward. An owl swooped across the gathering to land on the table in front of Snape. Startled, the professor broke his scrutiny of Professor Daine and leaned forward to retrieve his letter from the bird's leg pouch. He appeared to note the sender before quickly unrolling the small scroll. As his black eyes darted across the message, a smile twisted his lips. He slapped down a coin for the delivery. After pecking up the payment and stowing it in its pouch, the owl took wing out of the Great Hall.

Unexpectedly, Professor McGonagall growled the suspicion on Harry's mind: "He's up to something." Out the corner of his eye, he watched his housemistress narrow her gaze. Looking back to the High Table, he saw Snape rise and saunter around it.

Who wrote the letter? How could he find out?

As Snape neared, Harry snapped his attention back to the square dancers in time to see Barden grin as his raised hand met Millicent's and they circled each other. Apparently, the complex patterns of Professor Daine's spell were designed to mix and match Hogwarts's four houses.

With a sideways glance, Harry saw Snape stop beside Wilhelm Avery. He couldn't believe his luck. Straining his ears, he caught, "Your father sends his greetings."

Harry felt a tug on his sleeve. Meeting Ron's eyes, he knew his friend had heard Snape, too. Avery Senior had sent the message—Avery Senior the Death Eater, Snape's old comrade under Lord Voldemort.

The dance ended with bows and curtsies. The surrounding students applauded. Panting and grinning, the dancers dispersed into the crowd.

"Okay, now. You all see how it's done. Who'll be next?"

This time a mass of hands rose. When Professor Daine picked Cho Chang from Ravenclaw, Harry shot his hand into the air. His heart jumped when, out of all the volunteering Gryffindors, Professor Daine chose him and placed him facing Cho. He promptly cast his eyes down to his feet.

"So I can take a turn, the Sorting Hat has kindly consented to call the next dance. To complete our group, I think . . . Severus."

Harry glanced back. Snape looked momentarily thrown. Then his lips curled into a sneer. "Nobody dances unless he is drunk or mentally unbalanced."

Professor Daine's smile widened. "A quote from Cicero, yes?"

Professor McGonagall burst out laughing. "You're on my team the next time we play Muggle Trivia."

As Harry watched, the Hogwarts staff descended on Severus Snape. The more they urged him, the paler he grew. "You'll manage. You're not _that_ clumsy," Professor Sinistra said helpfully. "Show some pluck," Madame Hooch chided. Hagrid nudged Snape from behind. "Get on with yeh, then."

Only Professor McGonagall stayed apart, her mouth quivering with the effort of hiding an impish grin.

Suddenly, Barden began a rhythmic, "Professor Snape! Professor Snape!" Dumbledore joined him. In a minute, the whole room was chanting. From a position atop the CD player, the Sorting Hat's voice rang out the loudest. With an increasingly thin smile, Snape slinked forward. He faced Professor Daine with the resigned stare of a condemned man.

As the music restarted, Harry felt a pleasant tingle spread up his arms and legs. He relaxed into it and found himself skipping forward, then passing shoulder-to-shoulder with Cho. Stealing a glance, he saw a faint smile spread across her lips. He was grateful a spell controlled his movements—otherwise he might have melted into a happy puddle at her feet. As they sashayed right and left, Cho's eyes sparkled like black onyx. When they linked hands, her smile broadened. As he swung her in a circle, her hair swirled like a black satin scarf. The melody wove the lines of dancers in and out and he lost her—only to rejoin her, breathless, on the far side.

Harry fell back to a position next to Ariel Daine. In her glittering white gown, she seemed a fairy godmother amid the somber black of Hogwarts. He tried to catch her smiling eyes, wanting to thank her for one of the most magical evenings of his life. But her gaze was focused on Snape. When the Sorting Hat called their next step, they glided towards each other.

For once Snape's sallow cheeks held color. His thin lips quivered, either from the effort of denying the dancing spell or because he'd succumbed to it. Mirroring Professor Daine, he arched his arms toward her. As he did, his loose black sleeves slid to his shoulders. In the next instant, his jaw stiffened. On Snape's left forearm, Harry caught the pale gray outline of the Dark Mark—the Death Eater snake striking from the jaws of a skull. Gritting his teeth, Snape wrenched his arms downward. His feet continued to take him around Professor Daine, but his hands stayed clenched at his sides.

Glancing about, Harry saw no shocked faces. Apparently, Snape's angle was such that only he had glimpsed the forbidden brand. But when the two professors completed their circle, Harry saw from the horror in Daine's eyes that she'd seen it, too. A moment later, she swallowed her dismay and summoned back a weak smile.

When the music ended and the square dance spell sent him into a bobbing bow, Harry kept his gaze on Professor Daine. When the charm released him, he blinked, then looked up. With a sinking feeling, he saw that Cho had already rejoined her friends. Sighing, he rejoined his own. They barely noticed him.

"I'm not dancing—not to that," Hermione muttered.

"Oh, yes, you are." Ron grabbed her hand and raised it with his own.

When Daine smiled at them, Hermione screwed up her face appealingly to Harry.

"Almost ten," he said cheerily. "Time for me to go stir."

Harry slipped away from Hallowe'en with a jumble of images tumbling through his mind—Snape's satisfaction with Avery's letter, McGonagall's grim_ He's up to something_, the glow in Cho's eyes, the revulsion in Daine's. The fragments jostled and jarred each other, reaching no conclusion. As he darted up the moonlit stairs to Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, one thought rose clearly above the rest: How could he wait three weeks to question Snape?

* * *

**Author's Note**: Yes, this is not how Cho turned out as the books progressed. But when only four books of canon existed, she _could_ have been a match.

**As always**: Please review!


	9. Snakes

_**Chapter 9**_

**SNAKES**

Awhile later, after tending the dream potion, Harry peeked back into the Great Hall. The square dance was over. The candles had been snuffed so that only the three-quarter moon in the enchanted ceiling cast a soft glow. On the room's far side, schoolmates huddled together in a stand of oaks, their faces tilted upwards to the pearly apparitions floating above them. The Hogwarts ghosts were telling stories.

Catching sight of the Bloody Baron drifting behind the garrulous Fat Friar, Harry grinned. Maybe he'd tell the tale of his death that Nearly Headless Nick was too polite to request. Harry was about to sneak forward, when he noticed Professor Daine slouched against a nearby sycamore—her hands folded against her stomach and her head tucked down. Before he could decide whether she was too sunk in thought to notice him, Snape emerged from the shadows in front of her. Quickly, Harry retreated around the door post, but he trained his ears to listen.

With uncharacteristic lightness, Snape began, "I hope you're enjoying our Hogwarts Hallowe'en. Quite different from Lost Bayou, I gather. No fancy dress."

"Yes."

"That square dancing. Rather unusual. Somewhat similar to the Morris Dance, yet nothing we've ever seen here."

"Yes."

Snape blew out his breath. Then he plunged ahead in a voice no longer airy. "You're troubled. Troubled by what you saw on my arm."

"It's none of my business," she said quickly.

"This mark is no secret. The rest of the faculty know of it. Why shouldn't you? I was a Death Eater. But that's over. Finished."

"Of course, it is. How could you hold this job otherwise?"

Neither said anything for an interval longer than Harry felt comfortable hiding outside the door. When at last Snape responded, his voice had slipped into its typical acidity. "I was cleared—by the Ministry. Albus vouched for me. My right to be a professor here is unquestioned. Yet still you're troubled. You think—"

"Okay. I admit it. I'm troubled." Professor Daine's sharp whisper trembled with an indignation Harry hadn't thought the Good Witch of the South had in her. "I understand your Ministry was very lenient, and only diehards were punished. I'm happy for you. I'm sure you've been exemplary since. But seeing that snake on your arm _does_ trouble me. I _know_ what happens in the ceremony where a Death Eater receives it."

Snape released a bitter laugh. "Bravo! The most restricted wizards' coven of the century, and you're acquainted with the secrets of its most clandestine ritual. My compliments. Your wide range of knowledge well qualifies you to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. But tell me this: who do you think revealed those secrets for you to learn them?"

Harry heard whooshing robes and loud strides approaching him. Hastily, he wedged between the wall and a stone griffin—just in time to see Snape storm out the Great Hall. Harry needn't have bothered. The Potions master looked too vexed to notice anything.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, Harry watched Ron's hand falter halfway to his porridge as his eyes drifted closed yet again. In a moment, he slipped sideways. Hermione bit her lip as Ron's scruffy red head settled on her shoulder.

Suppressing a grin, Harry concentrated on forking scrambled eggs into his mouth. Maybe Ron wasn't as sleepy as he looked.

Hermione managed to nibble her toast without disturbing him, but when she reached for her café au lait, he jerked awake.

"Stirring the potion at two and six too much for you, eh?" she asked archly. "Or couldn't you fall asleep in between?"

"It wasn't that," he mumbled. "Every time I climbed into the hammock, I conked right out. But Myrtle was so upset she wasn't asked to tell a story that every few minutes, she let out a shriek." Once more his head nodded.

At the far end of the Gryffindor table, Harry saw Housemistress McGonagall studying them. Gently he nudged Ron with his foot, hoping to wake him quietly. Instead, his friend jolted upright, dropping his fork with a clatter. That did it. McGonagall fastidiously patted her lips with her napkin, folded it by her plate, then pushed back from the table. As she strode purposefully up behind Ron, his eyelids fluttered drowsily.

"Weasley. You have Temporal Transfiguration in ten minutes—not an easy course to grasp on too little sleep. What happened? Didn't end your Hallowe'en celebration at eleven like the rest of Hogwarts?"

"Ron's really keen on winning the chess tournament," Hermione said brightly. "Blaise Zabini is playing for Slytherin. They say he's an ace."

Harry stuffed a slice of bacon into his mouth to keep from smiling. Hermione hadn't lied to their housemistress—not exactly. What she had done was create a calculated diversion.

McGonagall fell for it. She patted Ron's back. "Today your friends can take notes for you. Get yourself back to bed. But no more late nights. If you want some practice, I can play with you this evening. Seven o'clock sharp in the staff room. By all means, let's beat Slytherin."

At her words, all four of them glanced across the hall to their rivals' table. From the hollow look of Snape's eyes and the way his head sank between his shoulders, Harry wondered if he hadn't slept either. He'd pushed aside his plate unused. As his sole nourishment, he nursed a mug of steaming coffee.

"And you're prepared for the St. Mungo's Spirit of Giving Fete, aren't you?"

Harry took a moment to realize his housemistress was addressing him. "Yes, uh. I'll be parading a lion around while Angela and Natalie ask for donations, right?" If the old cat had teeth, _that_ should inspire the spirit of giving in all the visitors Hogwarts hoped to attract that day, he thought.

"We'll see." McGonagall shot another glance at Snape. This time a smile twitched the corners of her lips. "Well, time to get going." With that, she pivoted and marched towards the door.

Harry was about to pick up his book pack to follow when he noticed Ariel Daine. Once more her hair was cropped blonde and her attire was conventional black. He watched her leave the faculty table, but he couldn't tell whether she was leaving the hall. She moved a few steps towards the double doors, then hesitated and looked back. Again she took a stride, only to turn clear around. More than anything, she looked like someone under a square dancing spell.

Harry blinked, not quite believing his eyes. _She's working up the nerve to talk to Snape_.

After more waffling, Professor Daine squared her shoulders and smoothed her robes. Then she walked rapidly to the Slytherin table as if determined not to lose her courage. Snape didn't lift his head, but Harry could see the glint of his black eyes as he peered sidelong at her approach.

Glancing around, Harry saw he was the last student at the Gryffindor table, nearly the last student in the entire Great Hall. In a moment, Snape would wonder why. He fumbled for his rucksack and took his time putting it on, all the while obliquely observing the exchange between the Good Witch and the ex-Dark Wizard. Daine appeared to be babbling out an apology. Snape's replies were clearly one-word grunts. As Daine made another appeal, Snape studied her warily. After a pause, he nodded.

Quickly, Harry turned on his heel and rushed out of the Great Hall, new questions plaguing his mind. Why had Daine apologized? Was it just her Alabaman good manners? Or was she trying to ingratiate herself? Was she, perhaps, also preparing to spy on Severus Snape?

* * *

_An oral presentation_, Harry repeated to himself, staring in surprise at ghostly Professor Binns. If Avery hadn't just incited Goyle to shoot a paper plane through the professor's misty forehead and broken Harry's concentration on Cho's luxuriant black hair, he would have missed Binns's unusual assignment altogether.

Not that the airplane had broken the professor's concentration. "You may present alone, or you may present with a partner. You may take any dynasty we will have covered by the end of this term. You may take any magical discipline developed during that dynasty. Presentations will be made the first week we return in the new year. Presentations will be fifteen minutes each. Presentation dates will be assigned at the next session. Presentations may employ visual aids. Visual aids are optional."

Once more, Professor Binns's droning voice was in danger of sending Harry into a doze. Last night, he'd caught a nap before taking the post-midnight shift in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, but he hadn't caught much shuteye in the hammock. He'd made the mistake of asking Myrtle about her favorite courses, and the ghost had prattled non-stop until six about how much tougher and stricter Hogwarts had been when she was a student. Without the tutor her Muggle parents had arranged for her, she would have been lost. He yawned. Odd that a dream potion should cause so much sleeplessness. How could they manage two more weeks?

In a moment, shuffling noises awakened Harry to the fact that the lesson was over. With one last glance at Cho, he reached for his rucksack. Tuesday again—exactly one week since Hallowe'en. Professor Daine's square dance spell seemed like a fantasy. Since then, his relationship with Cho had slid back to wistful gazing.

"Hello, beautiful."

Glancing up, Harry saw Avery had directed his offhand remark at Cho. With growing disquiet, he watched the Slytherin sidle up to the Ravenclaw. As the handsome, broad-shouldered teen planted his hands on Cho's desk, Harry felt his blood curdle.

"Wilhelm. Hi. Got to go. My next lesson is clear across the castle. Bye."

At Avery's wink, Goyle edged nearer, as if to block Cho. Harry dropped his rucksack and sprang to his feet. Then he paused, swaying. What if he was misreading the situation? What if he was butting in?

Avery leaned closer. "How about doing the presentation with me? I always like to work with the best, and you're clearly the expert on this subject. Forget that old spook. I bet you could teach me more mysteries of the Orient than he's ever imagined."

"Thanks," Cho responded dryly.

"Over the holidays, I could buy some visual aids—amulets, potion pouches, good luck charms, anything you like. Gold's no object. Afterwards I'd make a present of them to you. What do you say?"

Cho didn't answer. Instead, she looked back over her shoulder at Goyle. To Harry it looked as though she were gauging her escape. Taking a deep breath, he charged.

"Cho! About that thing—"

Startled, she swiveled toward him, her long black hair whipping to the side. "That thing? Oh! That _thing_."

Like a Seeker playing Quidditch, Harry evaded Goyle and ducked under Avery's arm to snatch Cho's book bag off the floor. Taking advantage of the distraction, she slid off her chair in the opposite direction and began walking backwards, keeping her dark eyes trained on the boys.

"The thing of it is," Harry said, putting some space between himself and the Slytherins, "Cho already agreed to do the presentation with me."

Avery's eyes narrowed. "How could she? Old Binns assigned it today."

"He assigns it every year," Cho said reasonably from a position near the door. "My big sister told me."

Harry hurried up the aisle, grabbing his rucksack on the fly. Reaching Cho, he handed over her bag like a Chaser passing a Quaffle. As if they'd practiced, they turned and headed for the door in unison. Harry could feel Avery's eyes burning holes in his back until he and Cho slipped out of the classroom and started down the granite-walled, high-windowed corridor.

They walked in silence until Harry judged they were out of Slytherin earshot. Then he mumbled, "I don't really expect you to do your presentation with me, but I could tell you didn't want to do it with him."

Tilting her head, Cho measured Harry with her wide, almond eyes. "Oh, I don't think Wilhelm wanted me to do the presentation _with_ him. I think he wanted me to do it _for_ him."

Harry laughed nervously. "A typical Slytherin."

Cho shrugged, shifting the veil of silky black hair that hung past her shoulders. Harry resisted the urge to touch it. He dragged his eyes away to the uneven flagstone floor, forcing himself to concentrate on what she was saying instead.

"My big sister warned me that Slytherin always seems to have a core of slimy creeps. But they're not all bad. I don't know about the boys, but some of the girls are all right. Like Morgana and Vivian. I was in Potions with them for two years. They used to tickle me. The way they flirted at Professor Snape! You should have seen how flustered they made him."

Meeting Cho's dark eyes, Harry felt a tingle of electricity. "Let's see if I understand you: Snape? Flirt? Flustered?"

Cho nodded at each of his words.

"Just checking."

They resumed walking, Cho swinging her book bag, Harry trying to control the sparks zipping around his stomach. Out the corner of his eye, he caught a smile quivering on her lips that brought one to his own.

"And Millicent's nice," she added.

Harry raised both eyebrows. "Millicent? Bulstrode?" _The dumpy, wart-riddled girl whose craggy face defines the word hag?_

Cho frowned. "Boys."

Harry swallowed. "What did I say?"

"The only way a boy knows how to judge a girl is by whether or not she's pretty."

"Not at all," he said hastily. "It's just that my friend Hermione had a fight with her once—an actual, physical, rolling around on the floor kind of fight."

The crooked passage curved upward. Cho's face grew thoughtful. "Yes, I remember. Three years ago, right? The one-and-only meeting of the Hogwarts Dueling Club."

"You were there?"

"Along with three-quarters of the student body. Maybe Hermione looked at Millicent funny. She used to be a bit touchy about her appearance. Then Vivian and Morgana taught her how to laugh it off."

_Millicent Bulstrode nice_. Harry would file that under _Will wonders never cease_. During their two years of Care of Magical Creatures classes, he'd generally avoided looking at her. But if Cho said Millicent was nice, he'd believe it. He glanced at her sidelong. She was as bright, open-minded, and kind as he'd always imagined. He didn't mind one bit that her skin was as delicate as porcelain and her lips looked as soft as a rose. As they neared the stairs he noticed that, without planning to, he and Cho had matched their strides.

Cho smiled. "Millicent admires you."

Climbing the steps in tandem, Harry twisted his head to stare at her.

"Seriously. She's really good with animals. Ask Hagrid."

Harry straightened his glasses. "I remember she was polite to the hippogriffs—unlike Draco. And she did have a way with blast-ended skrewts."

Cho nodded. "And she's especially partial to snakes. Her fondest wish is to learn to talk to them."

Harry felt a blush rising. "I don't know how I do it. When I'm speaking Parseltongue, it seems to me that the snake and I are speaking English. I had no idea I hissed until Ron told me."

Cho glanced up coyly from under her long, feathery lashes. "Do you like them?"

"Whom?"

Cho slanted an eyebrow. "Snakes."

"I've only talked to a real one once. The one at the Dueling Club was just a spell." Harry climbed a few more steps. "Come to think of it, that zoo snake was one of the friendliest fellows I've ever met."

"And some people think _they're_ all slimy creeps."

Reaching the landing, Harry saw the hallway branch into three. He didn't ever remember being in this part of the castle before, and he had no idea where he was. Cho tipped her head toward the left. "I go this way. Esoteric Geometry. It's a requirement for being accepted into the Academy of Arcane Architecture."

Harry nodded. "Magical architecture. That's fascinating. Secret doors, hidden chambers, shifting passages—"

"—fitting large rooms into small spaces." Cho began walking backwards, keeping eye contact with Harry even as she left him. "How about doing our presentation on _Wudang Shen Quan Quigong_?"

_Our presentation. _For a moment, Harry just stared as a dumb, blissful smile spread across his face.

"Unless you'd prefer another topic," Cho added.

"No, no," he said quickly. "Wudang Shen. I have absolutely no idea what that is, but if you recommend it—"

Cho grinned, hugging her book bag to her chin. "You'll love it. Lots of flying." She fell back a few more steps, then spun on her heel. Her long shimmering hair lifted behind her like a victory pennant. In graceful, loping strides, she raced up the hall.

After Cho disappeared, Harry continued grinning. His body felt lighter than air. Glancing down, he started laughing. Just as he'd suspected, his scuffed brown shoes were floating one inch above the flagstone floor.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Cho is definitely an alternative here to what she is in the canonical fifth year. Thoughts?


	10. Lion

_**Chapter 10**_

**LION**

"What's keeping Professor McGonagall?" Hermione muttered.

Harry looked up from his Temporal Transfiguration notes and shrugged. "I saw her come into the Great Hall at breakfast, but she left immediately with Hagrid."

He glanced around the bright, airy classroom. Despite the professor's absence, nobody was making a racket. He could hear whispered dares to cast a witty retort spell on her chalk or transform her chair into a porcupine. Nobody did. When the Weasley twins had pulled these pranks three-and-half years before, McGonagall had given them kudos for ingenuity and three evenings scrubbing bathrooms for cheekiness. At the time, Harry had been recovering in the hospital from his bout with Quirrell-Voldemort. The twins had sent him a toilet seat that sang _Get Well Soon_, but Madame Pomfrey had said it was too unsanitary and chucked it out.

But the challenge that sparked the most whispers was how to open the magically sealed Test Chest taunting them from the center of her vast oak desk. Whoever accomplished that feat would become a Hogwarts legend. Even George and Fred had never managed it.

"The later she comes, the better," Ron mumbled, running his finger down the scroll of notes Hermione had copied for him two weeks before.

Harry dragged his attention back to his own. Sometimes he wondered how Hermione had talked Ron and him into taking Professor McGonagall's most impenetrable course. Temporal paradoxes, divergent sequences, and asynchronous chronological intercepts were bewildering concepts, to say the least. Then he'd remember the Time-Turner McGonagall had entrusted to Hermione their third year—the wondrous hourglass that had allowed them to return an hour and save Buckbeak from death and Sirius from a fate worse than death. If not for the magic of temporal transfiguration, the Dementors would have sucked out his godfather's soul. He just wished he'd prepared better for today's test. But would he have given up the hours he'd spent the last week researching Wudang Shen in the library with Cho? No way.

Hermione pursed her lips. "If you don't already understand chronosynclastic infundibuli, five minutes of cramming won't help. Didn't you read the text?"

"You mean Vonnegut?" Ron whispered. "I've been too busy working out chess moves. And McGonagall knows it. I finally beat her in the staff room last night."

Harry straightened his glasses. "The staff room? Were they—? Again—?"

Glancing sidelong, Ron nodded.

Hermione's schoolmistress scowl melted into conspiratorial interest. "Do you think she's—?"

Ron lowered his eyes to his notes. "Spying."

Harry gazed thoughtfully at the foggy November vista visible through the four arched windows at the rear of McGonagall's classroom. All five evenings that Ron had played chess in the staff room over the past two weeks, he'd observed Snape and Daine huddling in the corner, immersed in conversation. After the first session, Ron had constructed a miniature Fourier Analytical Earhorn in Magical Metalwork—able to focus on any chosen conversation up to a half mile away. After his second chess match, he'd returned to Gryffindor with the curious news that the ex-Death Eater was divulging his entire Voldemort experience to his American colleague.

Harry knew one thing. If Ron was able to listen in on Snape and Daine while beating their housemistress at chess, Gryffindor's chances of trouncing Slytherin in the chess tournament were exceptionally high. "Did he say anything—?" he whispered.

Ron shook his head. "Still nothing I hadn't already read in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. But it certainly is different hearing it told by someone saying _I_ and _me_."

Hermione sighed. "The horse's mouth. That has to be interesting. Maybe Professor Dumbledore _should_ let Professor Snape teach—"

The door whooshed open behind them. Professor McGonagall strode in, clapping her hands twice for attention. "Everybody, eyes front." Bustling up the aisle, she pointed her wand at the Test Chest and spoke beneath her breath. The lid popped off, releasing twenty parchments to fan across the room. By the time she faced the class, essay questions lay before each pupil. Reaching into her robes, she pulled out a watch she'd previously shown the class—an advanced Time-Turner that could send a large spatial area into the future or the past, not just individuals the way Hermione's hourglass had done.

"Don't worry about having less time," McGonagall said. "As a practical demonstration of the discipline we're studying, I'm turning back the clock for the entire room by fifteen minutes. Ready. Begin."

The only clue that the room was shifting back in time was a momentary shimmer—much less disconcerting than the flying, rushing sensation Harry had felt with Hermione's Time-Turner. When he bent his head to read McGonagall's first question, he wished he'd gone back three days to mull over the assigned chapters in _The Horological Web_ a few more times.

"If you return to the past," item one read, "do you create a new thread of reality? Provide three reasoned arguments on both sides of the issue."

In his experience, Harry had discovered himself in the same version of the same event twice. In his first run-through, he'd seen himself across the lake but hadn't realized it; in his second, he'd looked back at himself. But there were other possibilities. In some nth dimension, did Harry mourn the loss of his godfather? In another, had Harry's parents never died? Was there a place where Draco always saved the day and Harry watched, sick with envy? Was there even some alternate universe where Harry called Voldemort _dad_? Was there a place where Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts was completely different from what he was experiencing now? And was one of those time threads the true, the _authorized version,_ while _his_ predicaments were just a pale imitation? He had 45 minutes to write about it.

Three-quarters of an hour later, trudging out of class, Ron leaned close to Harry. "You know those words she whispers when she's pointing her wand at the Test Chest? They're _Speak friend and enter_."

Turning his head, Harry saw Ron grinning smugly. His red-haired pal scratched his finger in his right ear and pulled out what looked like a tiny silver conch shell.

Unexpectedly, McGonagall called out, "Potter."

Ron shoved his Fourier Analytical Earhorn into a deep pocket.

Swallowing hard, Harry faced their housemistress.

"Meet me in the entry hall tomorrow morning at six."

_Detention?_ For a moment Harry stared at his housemistress, wracking his brain for what out-of-line stunt he'd pulled now—or, at least, what out-of-line stunt she'd discovered. Almost as an afterthought, he answered, "Yes, professor."

* * *

Thursday morning, Harry showed up in the entry hall ten minutes before six. Professor McGonagall was already there. He braced himself for a lecture on whatever he'd done to disappoint her. If he'd been seen sneaking into Moaning Myrtle's lavatory after midnight, he didn't know how he'd explain.

Instead, his housemistress grinned. "It's coming this morning. Hagrid told me."

"Oh, the lion." Harry blew out his breath in relief. He wasn't on detention. He was going to meet the Gryffindor symbol he'd help lead around during the St. Mungo's Spirit of Giving Fete.

"Lion?" McGonagall's smile broadened. "You'll see."

They waited in silence until two more Gryffindors staggered down the stairs, yawning and straightening their robes. Seventh-year Alicia bit her lip when she saw McGonagall tapping her foot. Second-year Natalie mumbled, "Sorry we weren't early."

Turning, McGonagall pulled back the oak bar on the tall double doors and pushed them open. Harry and his housemates trooped after her into the chill, gray dawn. His breath rose white before him—as white as the mist shrouding the Forbidden Forest that encircled Hogwarts.

"Get going!" Alicia muttered as she closed the doors behind them.

Seeing his housemistress already starting down the stairs, Harry sped up. At fifteen, he'd finally attained McGonagall's height, but her determined stride was still hard to match. He hurried between the marble dragons—one sedate, one threatening—and descended the broad steps two at a time.

"I can't wait to see the look on Severus's face," their housemistress murmured as they hustled along the gravel path.

Harry exchanged a puzzled frown with Natalie.

Alicia shrugged. "I don't have time for house rivalry. Not when I have so much work on preparing for my N.E.W.T.s."

Harry nodded. The three of them had signed up to be wranglers in September. Now that it was November, adding the duty of tending the Gryffindor mascot to their load of schoolwork didn't seem so appealing.

"Won't Hagrid be doing the day-to-day stuff like feeding and grooming?" Natalie whispered. "We'll just have to practice getting him to roar."

His headmistress's excitement made Harry certain something was going on she had yet to explain.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Please review! Thanks.


	11. Griffin

**Author's Note: **Please note that one of the Slytherins who was not yet characterized when JKR had only written her fourth book (i.e., not yet characterized when the draft of this chapter was written) makes an appearance here—and she's definitely OOC according to JKR's canonical books _after_ her first four. Just think of her as the woman this character could have been if only her circumstances had been different...

* * *

_**Chapter 11**_

**GRIFFIN**

Abruptly, McGonagall cut across the stubbled remains of last summer's lawn. Rushing after her, Harry felt dew dampening his robe and cloak. As they skirted a tangle of mulberry bushes, he caught sight of Snape arguing with Headmaster Dumbledore.

McGonagall broke into a grin. Then she coughed. As if she'd cast a spell on it, her mouth pulled down into a stern, business-like line.

Closer, Harry heard Snape retort, "A griffin is _not_ a lion."

"It's _part_ lion." Dumbledore's tone was mild, but amusement lurked under his breath. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.

Snape's dark eyes narrowed. "And a roc is certainly not an eagle."

"It's eagle-like," Dumbledore responded.

McGonagall stopped squarely in front of Snape. "A griffin is as much a lion and a roc is as much an eagle as a hydra is a snake."

Snape jutted his pointed chin. "On the contrary. A hydra is a type of serpent—so defined in any dictionary, magical or Muggle, you care to quote. As such, it's a legitimate symbol of Slytherin House."

"As a _griffin_ certainly is of _Gryffin_dor," McGonagall shot back.

"And," Dumbledore added reasonably. "If your two houses are going to be represented by such large, impressive beasts, it's only fair to let Ravenclaw be represented by a roc."

Beside him, Harry heard Natalie suck in her breath. When he glanced at her, he saw her eyebrows knit nervously. "A griffin?"

Just then Harry noticed Professor Sprout bustling up the path. Barden and two more Hufflepuffs trailed her. "What's this about magical creatures representing the Houses? Nobody told _me_."

When Harry saw what Barden was cradling—a normal-sized, non-magical, black-and-white badger that batted playfully at its wrangler's chin—he grimaced. Poor Hufflepuff. They always _did_ look like duffers.

Barden remained unperturbed. "You'll help us put an engorgement spell on him, won't you? Hagrid said it wouldn't hurt."

Dumbledore stroked his long, silvery beard. "Certainly. Would four yards do the trick? This is going to be one grand charity fete." Humming, he strolled off, ignoring the storm gathering in Snape's black eyes. The Hufflepuffs, students and housemaster, left the opposite way. With an exasperated grunt, the Slytherin housemaster folded his arms inside his black cloak and tramped after them.

Dropping all pretense of nonchalance, McGonagall rubbed her palms in unbridled glee. When she'd finished chortling, she nodded at Alicia and Natalie. "You two come and see the trappings our griffin will wear." She darted a glance at Harry. "You go find Hagrid."

Harry started off in the direction his housemistress had indicated—but slowly so he wouldn't catch up with Snape. In a moment, he saw Malfoy and Avery outside the Slytherin pen, warming their hands at a floating blue flame. Snape scowled at them and stalked on, past Millicent who stood inside the fence, facing the hydra alone.

Seeing the beast, Harry stopped. It _was_ magnificent—fifteen feet at least, sheathed in green and silver scales like sparkling jewels. And just like the legend, it had three heads. But despite its size, the hydra was anything but frightening. It curled placidly in the dust as if trying to sleep.

From a distance, Millicent's heavy face appeared sullen, but as Harry passed Malfoy and Avery, he saw desperation in her mud brown eyes. Her stiff posture said she was aware of him watching. Anxiously, she made more hissing noises through her clenched teeth. To him that's what they sounded like: noises. Evidently, to the hydra as well. The enormous beast continued to lie sluggishly on its side while all three heads cast her dull, disconcerted looks.

Behind him, Harry heard Malfoy snicker. He didn't need to look back to know that Avery was nudging him. Poor Millicent—dismissed by people outside her house as just another of those nasty Slytherins, mocked by those inside her house because (as Cho had told him) she wasn't.

Harry entered the enclosure. The three heads were muttering together.

"She seems nice, but what's she saying? Tra-la-la-la-la?"

"Sounds like baby talk to me."

"Perhaps it's foreign. I have a friend who speaks Amazonian Boa. Maybe he'd know what she's saying."

"Give her a break," Harry whispered.

Immediately, all three heads twisted in his direction.

A sob escaped Millicent's throat.

"Tell me what you want them to do," he told her quietly. "Maybe we can work out some hand signs. These fellows—" He raised an eyebrow at the hydra.

"Demosthenes."

"Erichthonius."

"Ted."

"Uh, Demo, Eric and Ted," Harry repeated in human talk to Millicent. "They think you're nice."

A smile spread across her craggy face, exposing crooked, spiky teeth. She tilted her hand up from the wrist. "When I do this, do you think they could raise their heads?"

Harry began translating gestures between hydra and human. In five minutes, the beast was coiling, uncoiling, baring its three sets of fangs, and pretending to strike at Millicent's prompting. The performance looked exceptionally fierce, but when the Slytherin wrangler invited Harry to bend down to pat the three chevron-shaped heads, it was clear the hydra was just an old sweetie.

Harry had forgotten all about Malfoy and Avery until he complimented Millicent and stood to go find Hagrid. The pair of snoots weren't looking so superior now. In another enclosure far beyond them, he caught sight of a delicate, satin-haired girl. Cho's appreciative smile said she'd seen his session as go-between for Millicent and the hydra. With a little wave, she turned away.

A glow spread over Harry as he watched her stroll towards two wizards in Arab dress. Before them crouched an enormous sapphire bird. When he noticed a saddle on the roc's back, he bit his lip. Would it really be safe for Cho to ride that thing? Then he saw the beast dip its huge head to delicately peck a treat out of one of the Arab's hands.

_Of course these beasts are harmless_. Hagrid had arranged for them. Since they were symbols for a charity event, not challenges in a tournament, only docile ones would be allowed. He thought of the beast he'd be handling. Like hippogriffs, griffins were known to get testy with rude people, but so long as Malfoy wasn't allowed near it, the creature should be easy to handle.

Hopping the Slytherin fence, Harry saw Barden, the other two Hufflepuffs, Hagrid, Sprout, and Dumbledore squatting inside the Hufflepuff pen around the steadily enlarging badger. How the headmaster could have gone the opposite way and ended up here before him, Harry didn't know. Already the badger had grown six feet.

Noticing Harry, Barden rose and ambled to the fence. After a greeting, he dropped his voice, "She's a hag, you know."

Harry frowned. He'd called Millicent that himself in the past, but now he wanted to stick up for her. As he mentally scrounged for something nice to say, the Hufflepuff's smile broadened.

"A hag in a long line of hags. Famous. In the history books. Her forebears were councilors to Scottish chiefs." Barden sauntered back to the badger, whistling the tune about Loch Lomand.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Suddenly, the engorging badger let out a boisterous belch. The people surrounding it jumped back. Harry hurried through the rickety gate to see what was going on.

Hagrid jammed his hands in the front pockets of his mangy moleskin coat and gazed down fondly at the ten-foot badger. "Needs a spot o' peppermin' tea. Got some back in me hut." Turning, he spied Harry. Though it didn't look like rain, his disreputable pink umbrella poked out from under his arm. "Ah, there yeh are. Waldo's come. The wranglers jes' hauled his carrier up the hill."

"_Waldo_?" Harry smiled. That sounded like a friendly name for a griffin.

Hagrid pointed to a stand of pines where Harry could see four wizards unlatching the rear door of a giant trailer. Snape stood a few yards back, glowering. Filch peeked through a crack in the side, then raced towards the Hufflepuff pen. Panting, he called out, "Professor. Dumbledore. It's here. You wanted. To know." Reaching them, the caretaker clutched the fence with one hand and rubbed his ribcage with the other.

"Thank you, Argus." Dumbledore leaned toward Harry, so close his beard tickled his ear. "As headmaster, I mustn't be partial, but sometimes it's hard. After all, I _was_ a Gryffindor."

Barden and Hagrid strolled off towards the gamekeeper's hut. After kind words to Sprout, Dumbledore clapped Harry's back, and the two rounded the fence to head for the trailer. Filch hobbled after them, wheezing.

When the wranglers swung the door down to form a ramp, Harry could see a bird-like creature, twice the size of a hippogriff, lurking in the shadows. When the tall wizard intoned what sounded like old English, the beast snarled. The two short wizards shared worried looks. Then the middle-sized wizard spoke to Dumbledore. "I'm sorry, but this lad just won't take a harness."

The headmaster's forehead lined slightly as he stepped nearer. He said something in a melodic, soothing voice, and slowly the griffin emerged from its box.

Harry sighed happily. Of all the creatures he'd seen, Gryffindor's was the grandest. The patrician face was a dozen times the size of a regular eagle's, and the feathers glimmered like rubies and gold. The jet-black beak looked as long as a scythe, and the talons on its sleek, scarlet-feathered front legs looked as large as grappling hooks.

"Lion. Right," Snape growled.

From what Harry could see, the back looked less noble than the front. The fur on the hindquarters looked sweaty, and flies buzzed around its flanks. Obviously, the journey had not been comfortable. No wonder the griffin seemed disgruntled.

Lifting its beak, the beast strutted down the ramp. At the bottom, it whisked out its mammoth, red-and-gold wings, sending the wranglers scurrying. Dumbledore said some more arcane words, and the creature fixed him with its beady red eyes.

McGonagall strode up. Alicia and Natalie followed, lugging armfuls of black leather straps and red-and-gold trappings.

"I'll ask him to bow his head." Once more, Dumbledore talked to the griffin.

The beast regarded him suspiciously, then did as asked. But when Alicia approached with the leather halter, the animal reared. When Dumbledore spoke again, it shrieked. Enraged, it lunged at Alicia.

Harry's jaw dropped. Then he leapt.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Okay. Millicent is _very_ OOC. But all we knew about her in the first four books was that she had a memorable name, was a hag and she let Hermione taunt her into a cat fight—not enough to assume she'd be hopelessly mean as well as ugly. So... what do you think of this variation? Please review!


	12. Flying

_**Chapter 12**_

**FLYING**

Distracted by Harry, the griffin missed poking out Alicia's eye, but a tremendous wing dashed Harry to the ground. His face in the dust, he heard Natalie scream. Rolling, then springing to his feet, he saw her terror wasn't for herself. The person held fast in the griffin's cruel talons was Dumbledore.

Panic welled up in Harry. Everyone else who could do magic lay sprawled and groaning in the dirt—all four wranglers, Alicia, his housemistress, and Snape. Aghast, he watched the Griffin flap upwards, dangling a limp Dumbledore. Harry jumped as high as he could yet just grazed the bottom of the headmaster's robes. Crashing to earth, he gasped for breath.

Then he remembered to pull out his wand.

Before he could use it, the griffin swooped off in a flash of crimson. All the spells Harry knew raced through his mind. A direct one like _Stupefy_ was probably no use, or the wranglers would have tried it. He needed one that would take him up to the griffin itself.

He clambered to his feet and stumbled after it. Keeping the griffin in sight as it circled the Hufflepuff area, then the Slytherin, wasn't hard. It seemed the majestic eagle wings weren't strong enough to lift half a lion straight into the sky. Adding the weight of a full-grown wizard kept it low. When the griffin disappeared between some trees, Harry feared he'd lost Dumbledore. Then screams from onlookers told him exactly where the beast was.

He lifted his wand. "Accio Firebolt!" Summoning his broom from Gryffindor tower was his best hope. But when he sprinted past the cowering Hufflepuffs and saw the griffin winging back, dragging Dumbledore with it, he knew he'd need some magic a whole lot sooner.

In the Slytherin pen, Malfoy clutched Millicent's robes. "_Do_ something!" Avery was nowhere to be seen. At the sight of the approaching monster, Malfoy broke and ran. He hadn't gone more than a yard when the griffin dipped to rake him with its lion paws.

"Hydra, attack!" Millicent screeched.

When the serpent coiled, then lashed all three heads at the griffin, Harry realized she'd shouted in Parseltongue. Instead of claws, the lion tail skimmed Malfoy's back. Then the nasty beak snapped off Ted's head.

Millicent fell to her knees in horror, and the griffin wheeled away.

Harry's stomach lurched. The monster was headed for Cho.

As Harry put on speed he didn't know he had, Hagrid pounded up beside him, his pink umbrella swinging crazily from his belt. Though age and size made him slower, the half-giant's long legs took him farther. "Tha's no' Waldo!" he puffed, "Tha's Regis! The meanes' griffin in all o' Britain!"

At last, Harry spied his Firebolt—a mere speck in the distance. To use it in the Triwizard Tournament, he'd left it by an open window. Digging its way out of his wardrobe had taken longer, but finally it was coming.

Not a moment too soon. In the Ravenclaw pen, the griffin was using the unconscious Dumbledore as a flail to beat the cowering roc. The Arab wranglers and two of the Ravenclaws lay splayed and motionless. Cho was circling behind, readying an attack.

"No! Don't!" Harry yelled, working his flagging legs as fast as he could. She mustn't endanger herself—not when his Firebolt was finally spiraling down at him through the beech trees. Then, as it grazed a low branch, something horrible happened. It snagged.

Harry's eyes popped wide. The broom shook itself. It pulled back, jerked, and stalled again. What could he do?

In that instant, Cho sprang.

Harry had never imagined anything like it in his entire life.

Cho didn't just leap, she flew. Without a broom, without her wand, working her arms and legs like pistons, she rocketed thirty feet into the air, aiming her foot at the griffin's head. The blow made it wobble. Before it knew what hit it, Cho touched down behind the tree that held the Firebolt.

Hagrid pounced, trying to snatch Dumbledore from the dazed griffin. Before he could, the beast shook its head and flapped higher—farther than the half-giant's reach.

Harry opened his mouth to ask Cho to jump into the tree for his broom. With it he could soar up and unhook the talons. Then, with an evil glint in its red eyes, the griffin dipped its head and pecked Dumbledore's cheek. Blood splattered. When a drop touched the gigantic roc, it scampered into the bushes like a frightened hen.

_Forget the Firebolt_. That would take too long. "Cho, do something!"

She swung around the tree, pumped her arms and legs, and arched even higher. With outstretched hands, she grabbed the griffin and choked it from behind.

"Your umbrella," Harry yelled to Hagrid. "On the count of two, _Jelly Legs_. You must remember that one. Aim at the griffin. And be ready to catch Dumbledore."

Hagrid's face went grim. Mimicking Harry's stance, he pointed his pink umbrella. At the right moment, he joined Harry in the common, schoolboy hex.

Struck by the double spell, both sets of talons lost their grip. Hagrid sprang forward and the headmaster dropped into his arms with a _whump_.

Unburdened, the red-and-gold griffin struggled higher into the sky. Cho released its throat and began plummeting. Harry thrust out his wand to voice a slowing spell. Before he could, she again whipped her arms and legs into an airborne run that transformed her fall into a graceful arc that landed her safely a few yards away. Incredibly impressed, he stuck his wand back in his pocket.

He turned to watch Hagrid gently spread Dumbledore on a mossy bank. The headmaster's eyelids fluttered.

Then Harry heard what sounded like a whirlwind. Overhead, he saw the griffin veering back on rapidly beating wings. Then the beast retracted all four legs and ducked its head. Holding its gargantuan body straight as an arrow, it dove towards him—hurtling, hirring like a missile, its black beak glinting as it aimed for his face.

Frantically, Harry groped in his pocket. His wand caught sideways. The whine of the plunging griffin intensified. At the last second, Harry threw himself out of its path, hitting the dirt on his stomach and sliding. As he did, his wand shot out and skidded away. He heard a thrash of wings—the monster sweeping upward, positioning for another attack. Harry threw his arms across the back of his neck. If his head was going to be snapped off, he hoped it would be quick.

Then the griffin yelped.

Harry rolled over. Staring up, he saw Cho mounted on the beast, gripping its neck with both knees and pummeling with lightning fists. The eagle head twisted wildly, but she was faster, feinting right and left, just out of reach of the slashing beak.

Harry scrambled across the dirt, fumbling for his wand. As he got hold of it, he heard a gruff voice intone old English. Flipping sideways, he saw Hagrid raise his right arm and train his umbrella on the griffin. The beast looked stunned from Cho's quick blows. At Hagrid's next command, it squawked. Its rage spent, it dropped its head. The wings slowed, flapping just enough to keep it aloft.

"Cho!" Hagrid called out. "Regis yields. Let him be. Jump!"

With one last box to the side of the scarlet-and-gold head, Cho slid off backwards, down the lion rump. She dangled from the tail a moment. The griffin bellowed. Then she swung out and let go, ran across the sky, caromed off the trunk of a pine, and floated to the ground.

"Whoah," Hagrid breathed. "What a woman."

On wobbly wings, the griffin disappeared into the mists that veiled the Forbidden Forest.

* * *

Harry stood by himself, leaning on his broom, watching Madame Pomfrey fuss over Dumbledore at the far end of the Ravenclaw pen. Even at a distance, Harry could see her smear of magic salve sending his cheek through a week's worth of healing in just a few minutes. Anxiously, she patted the headmaster all over for bumps then began brushing dirt from his long, white beard. He didn't wave her off in annoyance as Snape had done. Quite the opposite.

At Dumbledore's insistence, Madame Pomfrey had first treated all the other injuries caused by the crazed griffin—concussions, broken bones, twisted ankles, abrasions, and black eyes. Merely bruised and scratched, Harry knew he'd got off lightly. Two of the griffin's wranglers, Alicia, Professor Sprout, one of the Arabs, and two of the Ravenclaws had been sent by floating stretcher to recuperate in the hospital. McGonagall, as deputy headmistress, had canceled morning classes so the professors involved in the fracas could recover their composure. Those uninvolved were overseeing the rest of the students.

As he had after the dragon incident, Harry felt at loose ends. Cho and the other Arab wrangler were off soothing the ruffled roc. Nearby, Millicent wept while Ariel Daine patted her back. Filch, who'd scrabbled up a birch tree at the first sign of trouble, was perched on the fence sucking a licorice wand. Across the way, Malfoy hunched against a spruce, his blond hair matted with leaves, his blue eyes scowling at the ground.

Hearing scuffing feet, Harry turned to see Barden and Hagrid shambling towards him. The Hufflepuff was big enough to come nearly to the half-giant's shoulder.

"Well, the badger's all righ'. There's a blessin', anyhow," Hagrid said. "I'm havin' a word with them Enchanted Preserve folk, sendin' us that mad Regis. I wrote the reques' meself, an' I wrote it fer Waldo."

Out the corner of his eye, Harry could see Malfoy raising his head to glare at the gamekeeper.

"What a mix-up," Barden agreed. Harry couldn't be certain, but it seemed the Hufflepuff was sneaking concerned glances at Millicent.

"There oughta be an inquiry," Hagrid said.

At that, Malfoy snorted. Lifting his pointed nose, he marched up to Hagrid. "Inquiry indeed. Father will insist on it. And the inquiry will be into your fitness to hold any position of responsibility at Hogwarts."

Harry clenched his Firebolt. "Seems I remember _your_ father is no position to call for inquiries at Hogwarts."

The Slytherin flushed. "The Malfoy name still counts for something. Unlike Potter." Suddenly, his eyes gleamed. In a drawling voice, he said, "Potter, the famous hero. How does it feel to be saved by a girl?"

Harry exhaled slowly. Malfoy was one to talk. The leaves and twigs adorning his head came from scuttling into the underbrush. "How do I feel being saved by Cho? Wonderful. Grateful . . . the same way you must feel that Millicent saved you. Yes, sir. Cho can fly. Millicent can talk to snakes. We're a pair of lucky fellows."

As he spoke, Harry became aware of Barden nodding vigorously. Millicent peered over Professor Daine's shoulder.

The twitch at the side of Malfoy's mouth said he had no answer. Instead, he turned on Hagrid again. "I'm writing to the Ministry myself. And I'm going to mention your filthy old umbrella and whatever you're hiding in it. You'll see what happens."

"You will do nothing of the sort."

Startled, Harry looked over his shoulder. Snape was standing solitary several yards away. Despite a bump on his forehead, a scrape on his jaw, a tear in his sleeve and dirt all over, he still projected irrefutable clout. His murmur had slashed through the schoolboy argument like a knife. Now his black eyes brooded on Malfoy with a pessimism that was hard to read. As if reaching a decision, he strode forward and led Malfoy into the Slytherin pen. Though they were out of earshot, Harry could tell from Malfoy's drooping head that Snape was lecturing him. Both ignored the spasmodically shuddering hydra.

Hagrid muttered through his bristly beard, "I tell yeh, I wrote the order fer Waldo."

Professor Daine smiled. "Of course, you did."

Millicent stepped back, dabbing her puffy brown eyes. When she glanced at Barden, he shifted his weight. Then abruptly, he swung away to check on his badger. Slowly, she turned her attention to Harry. On bowed hag legs, she toddled closer.

Hagrid grinned. "Parseltongue? I knew yeh had it in yeh, Milly."

Her jagged teeth bucked out over her lower lip. "Just a couple of words, but it's a start. Harry translated some of the hydra's talk earlier. I guess it finally came together for me."

Hagrid nodded, then waved to Professor Daine and tromped over to her.

Millicent lowered her voice. "You're all right, Harry Potter. I used to think you were stuck up—all those Potions and Creatures classes we had. But you're all right."

"Uh, thank you."

"Saved by a girl—most boys would be ashamed. But not you. You gave credit where credit was due. That means a lot. You're really all right."

Embarrassed, Harry nodded. He was grateful when Barden jogged back, yelling for Millicent.

"The hydra! It's got four heads now. I think one of the new ones is the same lad that got bitten off."

Millicent's smile went as wide as a jack-o'-lantern's. She took off for the Slytherin enclosure at a gallop. Harry could see the hydra reared back, all four heads gazing at Snape. The professor made a solemn bow, then jabbed Malfoy in the side. Reluctantly, Malfoy lowered his head as well.

Harry was about to join the folk admiring the fantastic regenerating hydra, when he heard his name. As usual, Cho's musical timbre gave him a pleasant jolt. Turning, he smiled. "Wow. So _that_ was Wudang Shen. Reading about it gave me no idea."

Cho shrugged, then rubbed her dirt-smudged nose. "My great-great-grandmother taught me. Just a little discipline, a little practice. You'd be a natural."

"Me?" Harry felt a shiver of anticipation. Could he really learn to fly without a broom?

"If you're not too busy, I think we could fit in some lessons." She tilted her head, and a tangle of black hair, lank with sweat and dust, tumbled down her shoulder.

Harry had never seen her look so beautiful.

* * *

That night Harry dreamed of bounding star to star, sweeping the sky, propelled by nothing but the magic of his own limbs. The exhilaration overwhelmed him.

And taunting him everywhere he flew came Malfoy's words—"Harry Potter, saved by a girl."

* * *

**Author's Note**: By the end of JKR's fourth book, Cho could have still gone the direction she goes here. What do you think? If you don't know "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" (the movie that inspired this version of her), it's well worth watching. Or try "Iron Monkey" (a bit more fun and with a happier ending) to see the same crazy flying. And as always... please review!


	13. Incantations

_**Chapter 13**_

**INCANTATIONS**

A week later, Ron, Hermione, and Harry were still debating the Day of the Griffin as they stole down the pitch-black corridor to Moaning Myrtle's lavatory to say the final incantations over their dream and truth potions. On this night of the new moon, not a lumen of light shone through the high, arched windows. Harry wondered whether crowding together inside his invisibility cloak was really necessary. They'd already passed by Filch unnoticed. Only Mrs. Norris had peered at them with her suspicious cat's eyes.

At his left ear, Hermione whispered, "I still say Professor Snape was lecturing Draco for being such a coward."

At his right, Ron gave a loud snort. "Snape chew out Malfoy? You've got to be— Hey! Watch it! Those were my toes."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, recovering from his stumble. "But I agree. A lot of us heard Snape tell Malfoy not to push an inquiry. So why take him off privately? I think Snape was explaining that inquiry would lead to him."

Hermione shook her head, almost dislodging the cloak. "Innocent until proven guilty. If you want the truth, wait until you question him."

Harry grimaced. He _had_ waited. And the wait had almost killed him. That he was one perched on the dragon statue when it came to life might have been coincidence. That the meanest griffin in all of Britain had been brought to Hogwarts when he was the one set to parade it—that was one coincidence too many.

"I'm not certain we even _need_ this potion," he muttered. "We should just go to Dumbledore. He can put two and two together. Avery works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. His letter to Snape _must_ have been about the griffin. Obviously, they—"

A blood-curdling shriek cut Harry short.

Ron gasped. "Where'd that come from?"

"Up ahead." Without thinking, Harry wrapped an arm around each of his friends. "Let's run."

"Please, yes!" Hermione breathed.

Harry took off, dragging his friends with him.

Hermione gulped. "I didn't know you meant _towards_ it!"

A second screech jarred Harry. Definitely a girl. A girl in danger. A girl needing to be saved. But when he pulled his friends around the corner, another voice drifted down the hall that slowed the trio to a halt.

"Calm yourself, woman. This is a friend."

_Nick? _Harry peeked out the folds of the invisibility cloak. Up the hall floated three spirits, emitting their own spectral light. Nearly Headless Nick was patting Moaning Myrtle's shoulder. Beside him hovered a ghost Harry had never seen before—a cave woman with a humped back and dangling arms wearing scraps of fur. When she turned, he saw why Myrtle had screamed. The cave woman's skull had been bashed in by a crude stone axe. And the axe still hung there dripping ghastly, silver blood.

The cave woman grunted.

Myrtle stuck her nose in the air and vanished through her door.

Nick waved. Apparently, invisibility cloaks were not invisible to ghosts. "Gryffindors! Come! Meet my new friend!"

Hermione sucked air through her teeth. Harry knew ghoulish introductions were not her favorite thing.

"Certainly, Nick." Ron ducked out from under the cloak and strolled ahead. "Nice to meet you, uh—"

In a guttural voice, the cave woman said, "Fire."

"Fire?" Hermione repeated, suddenly interested. "Could she actually be—?" She dropped her half of the cloak and hurried to join the group.

Harry raised his eyebrows. Sandwiches were named after the Earl of Sandwich weren't they? Walking forward, he let the cloak slip to his shoulders. His hands he jammed in his pockets. He wanted to be sociable—but not to the extent of risking a sub-zero handshake.

"Almost axed, see?" Nick's pearl-white eyes danced. "We'll show that snobby Sir Patrick Delany-Podmore. His Headless Hunt will turn positively green."

Whistling a spooky tune, he and Fire glided up the hall, taking all the light with them. At the far end, Harry saw the faint gray outlines of half a dozen more ghosts. Three Scots had arms and legs barely attached. A maiden in a diaphanous Napoleonic gown leaked mist-colored gore from deep gashes. Just like Nick, two male phantoms in flapping wizard robes had heads that wobbled—almost, but not quite, axed.

Hermione's teeth chattered. "It's nearly the witching hour. Let's go see Myrtle. At least being killed by a basilisk doesn't leave one gruesome."

* * *

Hermione tossed the last of the bandersnatch skin flakes into the dream potion cauldron. They floated on the bubbly surface, then slowly submerged into the simmering cerulean liquid. She chanted a long incantation that Harry knew by heart—having repeated it himself over forty tedious times in the last three weeks.

_Drift into dreams._  
_Sail by notion._  
_Stray along streams_  
_Of thought without fetters, a limitless ocean_  
_Of passions and secrets and hopes and illusion._  
_Push open your shutters and free your emotion. _

"And spend five days belching from drinking our potion," Ron added softly.

Hermione cast him a warning scowl. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

_Embark on adventure. Create your own fusion_  
_Of danger and rapture and chance and confusion_  
_With memory, reverie, truth and delusion._

"And please be too thick to detect our intrusion," Ron mumbled.

Hermione poked him.

Harry raised his eyebrows appreciatively. If Ron had been adding such lines to each of _his_ forty repetitions of the spell, Snape would definitely be under their control.

_Contemplate fantasies, one of a kind._  
_Penetrate mysteries in your own mind._

"And may a fat warthog soon bite your behind." Harry grinned, surprised he'd managed a rhyme on such short notice.

"Shut UP," Hermione growled through gritted teeth.

_Discover in dreams_  
_Life's not as it seems. _

The spell was over. Hermione's glare dared Harry and Ron to make another joke.

Then a ghostly giggle sounded one stall over. "We hope you have nightmares on gross, icky themes."

Ron and Harry burst into pantomimed applause.

Moaning Myrtle pressed her face through the divider wall. For once, she was smiling.

"If this dream potion fails, it'll be all your fault," Hermione grumbled.

Myrtle shrugged and wafted away.

Harry shot Ron a worried look. He didn't want to flush three weeks of sleepless labor down the toilet. Nervously, he watched Hermione lift her hand above the simmering cauldron and release one sprig of narcissus. When the yellow blossoms touched the potion, it fizzed. Then a huge bubble erupted from the surface. Instantly, the delicate cerulean liquid congealed into a black paste.

Ron groaned.

Hermione smiled.

"You're certain it's not ruined?" Harry asked.

"It's perfect."

* * *

After another hour, Harry wasn't feeling so humorous. One in the morning, and he had to get some sleep. He didn't want to nod off in Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. Afternoon Quidditch practice would be useless if his reactions were sluggish. And if he wasn't alert that evening for meditation with Cho, she'd think he wasn't serious about learning Wudang Shen.

"Verbena, verjuice and a dollop of vermouth," Hermione said, adding the elements one by one. "The three _vers_ of _verity_." The piss-yellow potion turned a bilious green. She reached back into her pocket.

"Don't tell me you're going to add vermin," Ron mumbled.

Hermione ignored him, gazing wistfully at the sapphire pendant now sparkling in her hand. "Sacrifice for a good cause." With a sigh, she dropped the glittering blue jewel into the revolting, turbid brew. The potion turned as crystal clear as a glacial spring.

"Brilliant," Harry said. "The truth is transparent. That has to be perfect."

Hermione nodded.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Harry flung himself into the Little Nemo Hammock—for what he hoped would be the last time. Hermione had added a superstructure of glass tubing to the truth cauldron to trap solid particles while the remaining liquid steamed away. Then she and Ron had toddled off to Gryffindor. Harry had stayed to keep first watch over the process of recrystallisation. Hermione had rigged the tubes to sound a tiny bell if something needed checking. With luck, he'd be able to snooze in between.

Rolling over brought him face-to-face with Myrtle. She was perching on the stall divider, watching him tenderly. Some luck.

"You look _so_ much like him," she sighed for possibly the hundredth time in three weeks.

"I know, I know. I remind you of Teach." Harry tried to keep from sounding disgruntled. Myrtle was so touchy that the wrong tone could send her wailing until dawn. "You liked him. I'm flattered."

Harry's first stay in the hammock, he'd asked Myrtle if she'd known the young Voldemort, Tom Riddle. _Me know Thomas M. Riddle the Prefect? _She'd giggled as if she'd have liked to, but Harry had realized a first-year student from a different house wouldn't have had much chance. With a wink, she'd said, _The only fifth-year I knew was Teach. He was nicer than Prefect Riddle any old day_. Her first year, spells had so flummoxed Myrtle that her Muggle parents had paid for a tutor. Harry didn't know whether _Teach_ was his last name or his nickname, but he knew she'd adored him.

In low, mysterious tones, Myrtle chanted:

_Not by four and never by two _  
_Onward marching, guided on through_  
_Down the halls, and up the walls_  
_Ever silent, coming to you._

She closed her eyes dreamily. "He told me that, and I still remember. He made it up himself. That's what a Runes master does—craft spells that are completely new."

Teach had taught Myrtle well. Harry figured this was at least the fiftieth example of his doggerel she'd recited. If his bad luck held, she'd be rattling off rhymes till sunup.

"Some people think runes only mean magical writing," Myrtle continued in a know-it-all tone of voice Harry suspected she'd copied from Hermione.

"But that's where they're wrong," he finished for her.

Myrtle looked perturbed at having her line stolen. "Right. They're wrong. _Rune_ also means magical poem. And the ones Teach created are very powerful."

"Tell me one of the sleep ones," Harry mumbled as his eyelids drifted closed.

Myrtle gave a loud cough. "Don't you want to know what the spell is for? _Not by four and never by_—"

Harry's eyes snapped open. "I already know." The truth was, he hadn't a clue, but he couldn't bear another sleepless three hours while Myrtle explained it to him."

"Bet you don't. Bet you can't even guess. Come on. Twenty-one questions. Animal, Mineral or Vegetable? What do you want to ask first?"

Harry stared at Myrtle, torn between pity for the loneliness that made her pester him and the torturing exhaustion that made his eyeballs feel like someone had rubbed them with sandpaper. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Okay. I have a question . . . What did you do to your hair tonight? It looks positively . . . beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Her ghostly white features scrunched into an injured expression. "Go on! Make fun of poor Myrtle. Look at her stringy hair. Look at her gawky glasses. Look at the pimple in the middle of her forehead. But she'd be really bea-u-ti-ful if she smiled once in awhile." She gulped as pearlescent tears dribbled down her nose. With a moan, she stretched her non-corporeal body into a misty arrow and aimed for the toilet. Water shot up like a geyser as she dived out of sight.

Wiping spray off his cheek, Harry grimaced, thinking of what a mean, petty rat he'd just been. A moment later, he fell asleep. He rested peacefully until Hermione woke him at six.

* * *

**Hi!** If you've read this far, please leave a comment. It means a lot.


	14. Familiars

_**Chapter 14**_

**FAMILIARS**

This is embarrassing," Ron grumbled as Pigwidgeon did another barrel roll past his ear. "If Hagrid says today that familiars complement their guardians' natures, I think I'll explode."

Glancing from the fluttering owlet to Hedwig, perched sedately on his forearm, Harry had to admit he didn't buy that theory either. His animal wasn't displaying one twitch of the nervous excitement quivering inside him. Tonight was the night. Tonight he would interrogate Snape. He didn't know how he was going to get through a whole day of classes waiting.

Mud from last night's downpour squelched under Harry's feet, and he lifted his robes. Rounding a tumble of frost-encrusted blackberry vines, he and Ron joined the _Magical Companions_ students already gathered by Hagrid's cabin. Hermione waved as Crookshanks wove around her ankles. Beside her, Neville poked through brambles on hands and knees. Evidently, he'd already lost his toad, Trevor. Ron acknowledged his sister Ginny with a curt nod, his eyes fixed jealously on the sleek silver fox she was hugging. The first day of class, Vixie had chosen her, bounding out of the woods straight into her arms. Harry had to agree—nobody else's familiar topped that.

Scowling at the tiny owl doing loop-de-loops around his head, Ron growled, "Behave, Pig."

Of the rest of the class, two Hufflepuffs had cats and three had dogs. The four Ravenclaws favored birds. No surprise, Crabbe had a pig. Eyeing the lazy green iguana perched atop Wilhelm's shoulder, Harry thought, _There's a familiar that fits his guardian perfectly. _

Pig back-flipped onto Ron's head. Before the owl could try another stunt, he thrust her under his arm. Without a word, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked on, not stopping until they were huddled beneath a stand of pines still dripping with rain.

Harry leaned close. "Is the time-release powder ready?"

"Finished it last night." Hermione dropped her voice. "Let me emphasize that the interval between the truth granules and the dream granules kicking in will be brief—not more than ten minutes. You've got to be prepared."

Harry chafed his hands together to warm them. "I've had three sleepless weeks to think about it. I'll test him, then come right to the point. I'll ask where his loyalties—"

Ron nudged him. Looking back, Harry saw Hagrid plodding out of his hut, his pace unusually slow. Even so, Ariel Daine—barely reaching his elbow—slipped and slid across the mucky ground as she tried to keep up.

"More team teaching?" Harry asked. "How does the staff manage doubling up their lessons?" Already McGonagall had guest lectured on animals and animagi, and Flitwick had described how familiars assisted wizards and witches in carrying out spells.

"The professors use Time-Turners," Hermione said knowledgeably. "At this very moment, Professor Daine is teaching first-years back in the castle. I guess she's here to tell us how familiars can impart warnings and help protect against dark magic."

"So long as Hagrid doesn't ask Trelawney to tell us how animals predict the future," Ron said. Then he frowned. "What's that hag doing here? She's not in this class."

Harry looked back to see Millicent lumbering out of the hut behind Professor Daine. Noticing the huge black cat draped around her neck like a great fur ruff, Harry surmised she'd hung back to avoid aggravating Hagrid's allergy. Even so, the half-giant exploded a sneeze into a red hanky the size of a tablecloth.

"I guess because she _is_ a hag—from a long line of famous ones." Since claiming Millicent as a friend, Harry had looked up _hags_ in the library. He'd learned they were women of exceptional clairvoyant abilities who'd chosen the guise of ugliness to avoid being dismissed as merely pretty. "She's probably here to assist Professor Daine."

Hermione nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised if her cat _can_ predict the future."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "I thought you considered divination a load of codswallop."

"As Professor Trelawney does it, yes. She doesn't understand that divination by crystal ball has a lot more to do with temporal transfiguration than eerie lighting."

Crookshanks meowed as if agreeing, and Harry glanced down. Following the ginger tom's yellow-eyed gaze to Millicent, he saw her black cat wink. Hedwig fluffed out her feathers, attempting to appear as large as possible in front of the bird-eaters.

"From what I've read," Hermione continued, "hags know their stuff."

"Bet she's aces at interpreting bat entrails," Ron said out the side of his mouth.

* * *

Millicent stood with her back to the class, her black cat peering over her shoulder. Harry passed his rock hand to hand, reluctant to throw it.

"Come on," Millicent said. "Bête Noire's beginning to think you don't trust him."

Faint laughter broke out around Harry. Swallowing hard, he raised his rock and tossed it. Neither Millicent nor Bête Noire flinched as it splashed in a puddle three feet short.

Crabbe tittered. "Potter, you throw like a girl."

"Oh, really?" Hermione muttered. She stepped up, aimed, and pitched her stone straight at the cat. Just before it would have hit, Millicent dodged to the left, saving both herself and the cat on her shoulder from getting smacked.

"Knew she'd do that," Hermione said.

Professor Daine smiled. "Milly's so attuned to Bête Noire, he's like eyes in the back of her head. Most animal companions will do that—warn you of danger—whether or not your bond is magical. But Milly's going to show us another level of communication. Bête Noire can help her read minds."

"Oh, right," Ron muttered.

Professor Daine turned her soft hazel eyes to him. "And you can help demonstrate. I'd like you and Neville to decide on a number using hand signs none of the rest of us can see except for the cat."

The two walked off trailed by Bête Noire, hunched over to hide their gestures, then ambled back. The big black cat raced back to her mistress.

"Now, I want you both to imagine throwing that number of rocks at Milly."

Neville looked nervous but narrowed his eyes to stare at Millicent's back. Ron widened his eyes in a mockery of mental projection.

Bête Noire gazed at them, then nuzzled Millicent's ear. She broke out laughing. "Two-hundred and seventeen. But Longbottom wants everyone to know he would never do such a thing. And Weasley thinks this is one big joke."

Ron's gaping mouth told Harry his friend no longer scoffed at the possibility of communication between guardians and familiars. But an hour later, as the practice half of the period drew to a close and Harry's stomach rumbled for lunch, Ron was scoffing again—this time at the possibility of communication between him and Pigwidgeon.

"There's no _way_ that flibbertigibbet is going to _impart_ anything to me. She won't even sit still." Ron glowered at his classmates' creatures—Hedwig who had communicated to Harry how many twigs Hagrid held behind his back, Crookshanks who had guided a blindfolded Hermione around the boggy spots in the clearing, and all the other beasts that had given their guardians messages. When Ron's gaze lit on Neville, his frown deepened. Mr. Can't-Do-Anything-Right was still grinning at Trevor for helping him remember in which pocket he'd misplaced his wand.

"These things take time," Hermione said. "Most of us have been with our beasts a lot longer than—"

Ron jerked his head toward his sister who was sharing eye-to-eye communion with her fox. "About three months for Ginny, a year and a half for me. Though I have to say, I find it hard to swallow her claim that Vixie told her _I love you_."

Professor Daine strolled towards them. "Ron, you're the only one left. Won't you try again?"

Ron glared up at Pig zigzagging across the darkening sky. "Don't let me keep everyone from lunch. We'll starve before that bird even pays attention to me."

Professor Daine cocked her head. "I think she wants you to pay attention to _her_. Familiars, you know, complement their guardians' natures."

_Please don't explode_, Harry thought.

Instead, Ron looked defeated. "I was given that owl. I didn't pick her. She didn't pick me. She's okay for delivering letters short distances, but that's about it. For a real bond, I need a companion with something more than a birdbrain."

Wilhelm gave a superior snort. "Weasley, even bees can be familiars, even wasps or termites. The determining factor is not the animal but the wizard."

Harry saw Ron flush. In sympathy, he murmured, "I don't remember Avery's iguana telling him all that much."

Professor Daine shot Harry a warning glance, then laid her hand gently on Ron's shoulder. "I think Pigwidgeon zips around like that because she craves attention. She feels overshadowed, under-appreciated, untried. _Look at me!_ she says_. I'm special, too. All I need is a chance to show my stuff_."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Professor Daine's evaluation was so accurate, it was frightening. If his friend had looked embarrassed before, he now looked stricken. The unpleasant truth was, Pig's behavior _did_ complement her guardian's nature after all.

In subdued tones, Ron said, "Pigwidgeon. That's great. What an aerial gymnast you are. No bird can fly like you. Fantastic. Wow."

"There's the stuff," Hagrid whispered.

At first, Harry thought the owlet hadn't heard. Then she swooped down to Ron's shoulder and leaned her cheek against his, hooting softly. For once, he appeared to be concentrating on her. In a moment, his blue eyes widened.

"The rain is going to start up again, any minute now. It's going to be a deluge."

Wilhelm snickered. The next instant, he threw his hood over his head.

En masse, students and animals raced through the pelting rain, up the slope to the castle.

* * *

Dripping and laughing, the Magical Companions class crowded into the entry way, hugging their animals and chattering about the morning. _Only twelve more hours before I confront Snape_, Harry told himself. If he didn't keep his mind off it, he'd never manage the wait. The way his stomach was growling, he wondered if he could wait the few minutes it would take for the Great Hall to open for lunch. He was eager to go inside, hang up his soggy cloak, and dip into a steaming stew.

Already, Hedwig had flown away to the owlery to sleep. Pigwidgeon remained cuddled against Ron's neck. Watching Crookshanks wander off with Bête Noire through a forest of ankles, Harry said, "I think they know each other."

"I've been wondering where he goes at night," Hermione answered.

_Night. _The word pulled Harry's thoughts straight back to Snape. Tonight, after three weeks of laborious preparation, they would finally settle the question of his loyalty once and for all.

As that certainty crossed his mind, Harry caught sight of the man himself trudging up the dungeon steps. When Snape paused to scowl at the sodden crowd, Harry resisted the urge to return a challenging grin. _Just you wait_, he thought.

A few feet away, Hagrid stood gabbing with Professor Daine about the differences between British and American hinkypunks. When Snape fixed his cold black eyes on the half-giant's back, Harry tensed.

Raising his chin, the professor strode forward and stopped in front of Hagrid. "About that umbrella incident. The Ministry is considering my letter." His dark eyes flicked over to Professor Daine. He inclined his head in mocking acknowledgment of her presence, then swept on across the entry and down another corridor.

Anger boiled up inside Harry. Snape had ordered Malfoy not to complain to the Ministry of Magic. Instead, he was doing it himself. By what right! Hadn't Hagrid's unauthorized use of his old school wand helped save Dumbledore?

Gritting his teeth, Harry elbowed his way between students to tug on the sleeve of Hagrid's moleskin coat. The half-giant gave a start, then whirled around, almost knocking Harry over.

"I just want you to know I'm writing the Ministry, too," Harry said. "I'm going to tell them the truth about what happened."

A grin appeared under Hagrid's bristly beard. "Oh, will yeh, now?"

Ron and Hermione wedged in beside Harry.

"We weren't there, but we heard all about it," Hermione said. "We'll write, too."

"Tha's good news fer me. The word o' the professors will coun' more in a situation like this, but yer letters'll mean somethin'."

"It's the least we could do," Harry said.

Hagrid's smile broadened, and his dark eyes seemed to twinkle. "An' I have good news fer yeh, too. Le'me whisper it." Harry stood on tiptoes, while the half-giant lowered his shaggy head. "Professors Dumbledore an' McGonagall had quite a time convincin' the Board of Gov'ners, bu' we finally go' permission."

Perplexed, Harry stretched higher to catch Hagrid's excited murmur.

"Gryffindor gets ter show off a griffin after all. Waldo, this time. No mix-ups. He'll be comin' tomorrow, Saturday."

Slowly, Harry settled back down on his heels. He tried his best to return Hagrid's smile. Another griffin . . . as if he didn't have enough to worry about.

* * *

**Hello**-Writer, here. Please don't leave me in suspense! Leave a comment.


	15. Truth

_**Chapter 15**_

**TRUTH**

A minute past midnight, Harry stood with Hermione and Ron, tapping his foot on the damp tile floor of Moaning Myrtle's lavatory. He tried to ignore the sobs coming from the end stall. Tonight the sight of him had set Myrtle wailing louder than the storm blowing outside. _I'll make it up to her_, he promised himself. After all of this was over, he'd steel himself for a visit and let her unload some more runes on him.

"What's keeping Dobby?" Ron muttered.

"Be patient," Hermione said. "You want him to make certain Professor Snape is asleep before he fetches us, don't you?"

_I certainly do_, Harry thought. Even so, these last few minutes of waiting were the hardest of the entire three weeks. To distract himself, he trailed his gaze over the toilet's mold-spotted walls. They appeared to be crawling. The rain outside had brought ants—legions of them. By the flickering light of Hermione's magical blue fire, he could make out nine separate lines. _At least there aren't any spiders._

"I wish this were over," Ron said. "I already know what Harry's going to find out. Ever since our first Potions class, Snape's given me the creeps."

Hermione shrugged. "I just remember being embarrassed. I came to Hogwarts believing that I'd already learned everything there was to know from reading my textbooks. Professor Snape put me soundly in my place. I remember finding it a bit exciting having such an authority for a teacher. I didn't actually think him creepy."

Harry stared at her. "Not even when he said he could show us how to stopper death? I couldn't believe a professor would boast he could teach us how to make poisons."

"How to make poisons?" Hermione's eyes went wide in amazement. "Is _that_ what you thought he was saying?"

"Of course," Ron said. "_Death_ equals _poisons. _He was saying he could show us how to make poisons we could put in bottles with stoppers. What else could he have meant?"

Hermione blew out her breath, clearly exasperated. "Antidotes, you idiots. Exactly what he taught us last year. To _stopper death_ meant to contain it so it has no effect—by learning how to make _antidotes_ to poisons."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. That interpretation had never occurred to him. From Ron's chagrined frown, he saw it was news to him, too.

"Well," Ron said grumpily, "remember the time Snape was so eager to poison Neville's toad? You've got to admit, _that_ was creepy."

"I never said his teaching methods were gentle. He was just trying to emphasize the dangers of a badly made potion. And after demonstrating that Neville's concoction wasn't working, the professor would have given Trevor an antidote."

Ron cocked his head. "If that's your theory, why did you fix Neville's potion?"

Hermione returned a crooked smile. "Just in case."

The next moment, Harry heard a loud pop. He and his friends jumped, then turned to see Dobby grinning at them.

"It's time. Professor Severus is resting peacefully, ready to be liberated by Harry Potter."

* * *

When Harry entered Snape's office, the professor was lying silent and motionless on his massive mahogany desk—cheek to the blotter, arms akimbo, lank black hair tumbled everywhere. Only a slight flaring of his nostrils showed he wasn't actually dead. In succumbing to sleep, he'd knocked over a black metal statue of a gargoyle and rolled a crystal ball precariously close to the desk's edge. A lit candle a spare half-inch from Snape's splayed fingers told Harry how close they'd come to setting the professor on fire. The glass that had held the amontillado lay shattered on the floor. Some of the wine had splashed into four cages pushed up against the wall. The dozen fat white rats they housed were all sound asleep as well. Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. _Rats_. Just the type of familiar he'd expect Snape to have.

Cautiously, Harry picked up the crystal ball and returned it to its stand. He wondered whether Snape had more success gazing into it than Trelawney had with hers. Obviously, he hadn't foreseen a house elf slipping Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder into his evening goblet of wine. Harry just hoped he was conscious enough to be questioned.

Pulling his invisibility cloak low over his forehead, he began, "What is your name?" Hearing timidity in his tone, he coughed and tried again. "Tell me your name."

Slowly, Snape raised his head, drawn to attention by Harry's commanding voice. Thankfully, his eyes remained closed. "Professor Severus Snape," he answered. "Twelve Substantive Consummate Omnifarious Wizarding Levels with Honors, Certified Public Concoctionist, Grand Master Apotropaist, Head of Slytherin House, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry shook his head. Even in sleep, Snape was protective of every scrap of respect he could get. To verify he was truly under the influence of Verita Powder, Harry now had to ask an embarrassing question—one Snape would never answer unless compelled. "Two years ago, in the Shrieking Shack, who took away your wand and knocked you out?"

Harry heard a rumble deep in Snape's throat. The corners of his mouth turned down in a horrible grimace. At last he spat out, "Those brats. Granger, Weasley, and Potter. With a spell _I_ taught them."

Harry smiled. "And who was the servant of Voldemort, Black or Pettigrew?" Wherever Snape's loyalties lay, Harry surmised the professor knew the answer to that one. Either he really _had_ thought Sirius a traitor and his grudging handshake the year before had been evidence that Dumbledore had convinced him of the truth—or, as Voldemort's other servant, Snape had known the truth all along and had been faking his righteous anger.

"Pettigrew," the professor snarled.

_Good_. Harry couldn't resist one more. "And who correctly identified him? You or—?"

"Those brats."

"_Who_ was wrong?"

"_I_ was wrong."

Harry took a deep breath. The time had come. "Tell me: to whom do you owe your loyalty?"

This time Snape didn't answer. His eyelids trembled as if he were trying to wake up. His thin lips quivered, fighting their compulsion to release his secret. Harry leaned forward, anxious to resolve the issue once and for all: _Voldemort or Dumbledore? _He watched lines furrow Snape's forehead as he struggled against the Verita Powder, until at last he groaned, "Lily."

Harry gave such a start that his cloak dropped from his shoulders. "Wh-what did you say?"

Snape ran his tongue across his lips as if recalling a sweet long forgotten. More softly, he repeated, "Lily." Then he sighed, breathing the name in tones of deepest reverence, "Liiiileee."

Quickly, Harry grabbed his cloak and hid himself in it. Snape was awake, that was it. Snape was awake and playing a trick on him. He couldn't possibly be talking about... "My moth—Lily Potter?"

Snape growled. "Potter. A mistake. A deadly mistake. Lily should never have become... Potter."

Harry peered out from between the folds. As impossible as it was to fathom, Snape was still asleep—and he _was_ talking about his mother.

"Lily!" Snape's head lolled to one side. "So kind... so wise... so gentle, so... giving."

Harry watched Snape's scowl relax into a tender smile he'd never seen before. And he didn't like it one bit. A cold lump forming in his stomach, he repeated, "_Giving_?"

Drowsily, Snape nodded. "_Too_ giving... gave everything for... that boy... Potter's son. Lily... she gave her life."

Harry went cold all over. In a very small voice, he answered, "That's what mothers do."

"Mothers?" Snape snorted so loudly, Harry feared he'd wake himself up. "Not _my_ mother... the only thing she ever gave me was... my name..." His voice rose in a stilted imitation of a Mayfair dame. "Yes, darling. I thought having you in our lives would bring your father and me closer together... Instead, all you did was... sever us." His head sank to the desk, and his shoulders shuddered.

_Oh, no. He's crying_. Embarrassed, Harry looked aside. "It's not your fault your mother... didn't love you." _And it's not my fault my mother loved me. _When he stole another glance at the professor, Harry realized Snape wasn't crying. He was laughing. And the sound was bitterer than tears.

"Not even... a Christmas present... Posy picked them."

Harry frowned. Didn't people pick posies? Snape's mind was drifting towards the dream phase of the potion, leaving more questions than when Harry had begun. The ones about his mother were too disturbing. Resolutely, he returned to his original mission. "To whom are you faithful? Dumbledore or—"

"Door?" Snape raked his fingers through his disheveled black hair. "Waiting at... the door... faithful Posy... never gave her… even a Christmas present."

A house elf. Posy had been Snape's childhood house elf. Rich, snobbish, wizarding families always seemed to give them cutesy names like that. Exasperated, Harry said, "Forget Posy. Do you follow—"

"I _did_ forget Posy." Snape's moan sounded bleak and lonely. "Posy... rosy... rosemary..." his head began rocking as if in time to a nursery tune "…pansy, fennel, columbine, rue... Even an elf has the right to pursue..." His words faded in a long sigh. "She's kind... and wise... and gentle... and..."

Harry gaped at Snape in horrified frustration. That hadn't been ten minutes—more like five. Three sleepless weeks slaving over Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria powder in Moaning Myrtle's dank toilet were going to waste before his eyes. Desperately, he shouted, "Tell me! Do you follow Voldemort?!"

_Too late. _Snape's eyes were moving rapidly beneath the lids. "Lily! Stay back! I see him, the foul Bandersnatch—slithering through the violets… Lily, I can save you...please, Lily... don't go..."

Harry stared at the sleeping professor. He'd lost him to phantasmagoria. And if he didn't leave soon, Snape would wake up, and he'd be in more of a fix than he'd ever been in before.

From the other side of the door that led to the staircase where Ron kept watch, Harry heard a clamorous crash as if every pot and pan in Hogwarts's kitchen had been heaved down the steps. Snape's eyelids started to rise.

* * *

**Okay, now**... Thoughts? Please comment!


	16. Stairs

_**Chapter 16**_

**STAIRS**

Another crash of metal on stone made Harry jump. Yet facing the ruckus outside seemed less scary than facing Snape. Clutching his cloak, he raced towards the noise, praying he was truly invisible. If so much as a fingertip showed, he'd be nailed.

Behind him, Snape groaned, still groggy. The caged rats squeaked and scrabbled. Harry swung open the door. Arrows of light darted up and down the stairs. Before he could dodge, one pierced his shoulder. Icy pain shot down his spine. He cried out, only to be cut short by a yank on his arm. Desperately he twisted, anxious to escape. Then he heard a tense whisper.

"Come on! Let's leg it!"

Relief flooded Harry. He threw half of the cloak across Ron's shoulders, and together they stumbled down the steps to the alcove where his friend had been keeping watch. Silver shapes whizzed past, lighting their way. Strange shrieks and howls reverberated around them. Just as they slipped behind the musty tapestry that masked the alcove, Harry heard an imposing voice rise above the din.

"Show yourselves! Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, commands it!"

A whoosh of air shook the tapestry. Harry shrank back against the cold granite. _Please don't mean us_, he begged silently. Beside him, Ron shuddered.

"Show yourself this instant! You can't hide from me."

Harry glanced down. In the eerie light bouncing off the walls, he could see that his toes were sticking out beneath the tapestry. Could Snape see them, too? But if he moved his feet to hide them, he'd be even more likely to risk attention. At least Hermione wouldn't be suspended. She was keeping watch at the professor's other door on the classroom side.

Another screech echoed up the passage.

"Stop this at once and come out!"

Abruptly, the staircase went deathly quiet. The numinous light coalesced into a soft, steady glow. Harry held his breath, expecting that any second now Snape would whip aside the wall hanging. One last hunk of metal clattered down the steps.

Then Nick's jovial voice rang out. "Working late, professor? Thought all you humans had gone to bed ages ago."

"Sir Nicholas de Mimsey-Porpington?" Snape sounded stunned.

"And friends."

"Friends?"

"Surely. Let me introduce—" Nick imitated a drum roll "—the _Almost Axed Acrobats_. We're in rehearsal, of course, and Guy of Surrey and Bruce the Highlander don't quite have the juggling down, but—"

Snape exhaled slowly. The sound reminded Harry of a teakettle starting to heat. "The Almost Axed Acrobats?"

"Has a nice alliterative ring, don't you think?"

"You're juggling—"

"Armor. Helmets, gauntlets, breastplates. We'll put everything back, naturally."

"Naturally."

Snape spoke calmly, but Harry was certain his mildness was deceptive. Though he couldn't see the professor, memory of his own many run-ins created a picture of him—jaw stiffening, lips twitching, cheeks turning a mottled gray. Any moment now, the professor would erupt. _Poor Nick_. Surely, a ghost couldn't be expelled from Hogwarts?

"We—we didn't mean to disturb anyone." For the first time, Nick's tone was hesitant. "We were only—"

"Rehearsing. Yes, well. You were rather loud. Be grateful I wasn't . . . sleeping." Snape cleared his throat. "I must ask that at night you continue to confine your rehearsing to this part of the castle. The living need their rest. And . . . rethink the juggling."

"Certainly, certainly. Don't want to waken anyone."

"Indeed."

Harry couldn't believe his ears. Instead of exploding, Snape was quietly jiggling a key in his lock and murmuring an incantation. In a moment, Harry caught the rustle of robes as the professor ascended the stairs.

"Good night," Nick called out. "Pleasant dreams."

"What? Yes. Good night."

Ron grabbed Harry's wrist as they strained to hear whether the professor had truly gone. At last, he leaned close to Harry's ear. "Was that really Snape? He sounded almost, well—I don't know _how_ to put it."

"Reasonable?"

"That's the word. Hard to think of it in connection with Snape." Ron released Harry and patted him on the back. "What did you _do_ to him?"

* * *

"You liberated Professor Severus," Dobby said happily, once the four conspirators were reunited in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. "That's what you did."

"Uh, yes," Harry said. _Or at the very least, confused him._

"Dobby saw his face as he passed on the stairs. Out-of-kilter, it was. Open."

Hermione's forehead wrinkled. "Open?"

Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry looked aside and saw his self-conscious grimace mocking him repeatedly from the row of tarnished bathroom mirrors. "He was probably just half-asleep."

"No, sir. Dobby knows that face. Dobby knows that feeling. It's liberation."

On the elf's last word, a sob echoed from the toilet at the end. "Lib-er-a-tion!"

Hermione jabbed her thumb in the direction of Myrtle's wailing. "What's _wrong_ with her tonight? I thought she was lightening up."

Harry bit his lip, feeling even worse.

"Maybe she's jealous she doesn't qualify for the Almost Axed Acrobats." Ron shrugged. "Now tell us exactly what Snape—"

"Nick's Acrobats—" Harry interrupted, grabbing at the distraction. "You should see them, Hermione. After Snape left, they put on a show for us. When Nick and the other two wizards get their heads spinning, and the Scots start tumbling over each other, it _is_ a sight to see."

"Another night," Ron said impatiently. "Those spooks are dying for an audience. But first—"

Harry pretended his friend hadn't spoken. "They should give up the juggling, though. They're too insubstantial. Even if one ghost manages to hoist and toss something, it goes right through the next. But when—"

Ron glowered. "Quit stalling. Tell us. Where do Snape's loyalties lie?"

Harry shifted his weight. His shoes made sucking noises on the damp tile. "Well, he was more drowsy than I thought he'd be. Not quite so coherent."

"But he told you the truth, didn't he?" Hermione sounded anxious, as if afraid to learn her potion hadn't worked.

"Yes. Of that, I'm positive." Snape wouldn't have said _any_ of the things he did in jest.

"And that truth was—"

Harry stole a glance at Ron, wondering how many lies he could get away with. "Well . . . his loyalties would be with Dumbledore."

Hermione beamed. "I knew it. I just knew it."

Dobby nodded happily.

Ron frowned. "He said that?"

"Not in so many words . . . but he told me something that gave me good reason to believe his loyalties wouldn't be with Voldemort."

Ron cocked his head. "Which was—?"

"Snape let on he had once. . . ." Harry removed his glasses and polished them. When he put them back on, he saw that Ron looked ready to strangle him. ". . . he'd been fond of someone. A woman. Voldemort killed her."

Ron released a long, low whistle.

In a tentative voice, Hermione asked, "Professor Snape was in love?"

"I didn't say that," Harry shot back.

"But you said—"

"He was fond of someone. He didn't say she was fond of him. They might have been friends. Maybe. That's all I know."

"Snape was in love," Ron repeated in a wondering tone.

"That's _not_ what I said," Harry insisted. _And don't ask me with whom._

"Were they married?" Hermione asked.

"Of course not! I never said—"

"Don't be daft," Ron cut in. "If he'd ever been married, it'd be common knowledge all over Hogwarts. A wife's a rather public matter, after all,"

Actually, Harry couldn't remember having ever heard that any of the professors had ever been married.

Hermione sighed. "You're right, of course. The professor had a clandestine lover."

"He did not!" Harry blurted out. "I never—"

"No wonder he's so brusque," Hermione went on. "He's nursing a private heartache."

"Heartache!" Myrtle moaned.

Harry saw Dobby's eyes starting to shimmer. He stared at the floor.

"Snape in love. Who'd have thought it?" Even Ron sounded subdued. "Well, the Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder did its job, and we're back to square one. Who's trying to kill Harry? It's not Snape."

Harry frowned, recalling Snape's adoring description of his mother: _Too giving. Gave everything for that boy, Potter's son. Lily—she gave her life. _Snape blamed him for his mother's death. Could he hate him enough to want him to pay with his life?

"I told you the professor's all right," Hermione said. "After all, he _did_ protect Harry our first year."

_That was true_. Ever since Snape had scoffed at James's motive for saving him from werewolf Lupin, Harry had wondered about the real reason Snape had looked after James's son. When push came to shove, did Snape see Lily in her son's green eyes?

Harry passed a hand over his forehead, wanting nothing more than for all such images to go away. "You guys," he said softly. "We've _got_ to keep this quiet. We can't ever discuss it or try to find out more about it. The story stops here. It mustn't leave this room."

The elf raised his chin. "You know Dobby can keep a secret."

"I'll carry it to the grave!" Myrtle cried from her end stall.

Ron raised his eyebrows, as if offended Harry had even asked.

Hermione pursed her lips. "It'll be hard to look at Professor Snape in the same way ever again. It's frustrating hearing just a piece of such a story and not—" When Harry glared at her, she nodded. "Of course, I'll respect his privacy."

* * *

**Hello!** Please tell me what you think. Thanks.


	17. Visits

_**Chapter 17**_

**VISITS**

The next morning, Saturday, Harry awoke with a burning desire to find out everything he possibly could about Snape and his mother. Did Sirius know something? He'd been with them at Hogwarts. But asking roundabout questions by letter would probably result in no answers at all. Dumbledore? He'd once said he had a good reason to trust Snape's loyalty—a reason he couldn't reveal. Harry stared up at the canopy that shrouded his four-poster bed. That meant Dumbledore was unlikely to reveal it to him now.

At breakfast, Harry remained tangled in his quandary. When Cho smiled at him from the Ravenclaw table, he pretended not to notice. By the time Hermione pushed back her plate and rose to her feet, he'd barely nibbled a biscuit.

"Going to the library?" Ron asked. "I have some research to do."

Hermione shifted from one foot to the other. "Uh, I can meet you there in an hour."

"Then where're you going now? I'll come with you."

"Well, actually, I'm going to Myrtle's. And this is not a good time of day for a boy to sneak in there."

Sidelong, Harry saw Ron's eyes widen.

"I want to say, 'Hi,'" Hermione added quickly. "See if she's feeling better." Before Ron could answer, she hurried towards the door.

After a moment of staring, Ron switched his attention to Harry.

"I have to go meet the new griffin." Suddenly, Harry realized he knew the perfect person to ask about Snape and his mother: Hagrid.

Ron smiled. "I'll come—"

"No. Uh, griffins are tricky. Until Waldo gets settled, it'd be best not to crowd him." Besides, Harry wanted to talk to Hagrid alone. Out of his friend's many fine qualities, the one he was counting on this morning was his inability to keep a secret.

When Harry stood up from the table, his food barely touched, Ron stayed—glumly balancing his spoon on his knife.

* * *

Waldo wasn't half as impressive as Regis had been. He was at least three feet shorter, and his feathers were rust-brown rather than brilliant red. But his stance was relaxed, and his eyes were calm. At first, he examined his new trainer gravely, but after Hagrid introduced them and Harry performed the proper bow, he strolled forward and inclined his head for a pat.

After an hour of learning old English commands until Waldo's cooperation showed Harry his pronunciation was acceptable, his mind slid inescapably back to the questions that had plagued him since dawn. He felt relieved when Hagrid called it quits and invited him for a cup of tea.

Passing the Slytherin pen, Harry saw Millicent chatting with the four-headed Hydra. The exchange sounded like English, but he figured that was a trick of his mind translating the Parseltongue.

Then Hagrid called out, "Good mornin', t'yeh. Enjoyin' the sun? It'll star' rainin', soon enough."

The newest of the heads replied, "Water's no worry for us. Why do you think we're called a hydra?"

As Harry raised a puzzled eyebrow, Millicent grinned toothily. "Meet Quatre. He speaks English. It turns out that when a hydra grows a new head, it has the ability the creature feels it needs most. His translations are helping me learn Parseltongue."

Even this interesting fact couldn't distract Harry from his need to talk privately to Hagrid. Yet when he sat down at his friend's massive oak table, he was still wondering where to start. He surveyed the hut for inspiration. Since his last visit, Hagrid had knitted another yard onto his latest red-and-gold afghan project. Over the mantle hung a new photograph of his mum, tenderly cooing. Harry smiled back. The summer before, when Hagrid and Madame Maxime had been envoys to the Carpathian giants, his friend had happily discovered that his mother _did_ love him—that the reason she'd left had been to spare him the shame of having a giantess mother. They'd exchanged letters ever since.

But one addition to Hagrid's quarters surprised Harry, something he'd never expected to see: piles of books. Two volumes by Goshawk and Waffling's _Advanced Magical Theory_ lay on the night table. On a stool by the wardrobe, more standard texts by Jigger, Spore, and Angedoux made a haphazard tower.

When Harry caught his eye, Hagrid grinned. "The letters _did_ help. I never would o' hoped fer it, but after all these years, I'm bein' given me chance."

"Chance?" Harry leaned forward. "To—?"

"Ter mend me wand. Ter train myself up. Ter become a full-fledged wizard, good an' proper."

Harry whooped. "Brilliant! Congratulations!" _That was quick_. He, Hermione, and Ron had only written the Ministry the afternoon before.

Looking pleased but embarrassed, Hagrid turned to pour water from the teakettle into his bucket-sized teapot. "The headmaster tol' me this mornin' an' brough' me all the books I need ter study. I don' fancy all tha' readin', but the professors promised ter tutor me private-like when they're able. It'll be a bi' catch-as-catch can, wha' with ev'rythin' else I have ter do, but one o' these days, I migh' even take me O.W.L.S." He set his teakettle back on his stove. "Yeh could say, I owe it all ter Regis."

Harry laughed, happy for his friend. "That's one subject you won't have to brush up on—magical creatures."

Hagrid plunked his enormous tea tray on the table, then handed Harry a bowl-sized cup. "With griffins it's jus' a matter o' knowin' the family tree. As a young man, I apprenticed fer a time at the Enchanted Preserve. I worked wi' Regis's dad. From hard knocks Rex gave me, I knew nothin' on this earth would get a harness on his son. Waldo, now—his dad's noble heart tol' me he'd wear it like regalia."

"Like father, like son." At last, Harry saw his opening. He waited while Hagrid poured him a steaming cup. With his ladle-sized spoon, he stirred in milk and sugar. "How about people? You've been here long enough to see a lot of father-son pairs. The Weasleys, for example."

Hagrid sipped his tea. "Well, Percy's an odd one, but the other lads're clearly nuts from tha' tree. Lively an' full o' fun."

"The Malfoys?"

"Spiteful, both o' them—but a bit scared o' not bein' thought the best."

"And the Averys?"

Hagrid grunted. "That Wilhelm. There's a nut tha' didn' fall far from the tree. A struttin' little do-nothin' who fancies the gold his great-granddad made earns _him_ the right ter look down his nose. Just like his dad."

Harry nodded. Lifting his oversized teacup with both hands, he brought the steaming drink to his lips. He smiled over the rim to show his friend how much he appreciated it. Then casually he asked, "And Snape—"

"_Professor_ Snape," Hagrid corrected, then winked. "Yeh always work it 'roun' ter Professor Snape. What're yeh suspectin' him o' now?"

_Of being__ sweet on my mother_. Aloud, Harry said, "Nothing. Just wondering what his parents were like."

"One look at that pair, an' yeh'd know he'd been adopted." Hagrid stirred his tea thoughtfully.

"Adopted?" Harry hadn't expected that news.

"Not a bit like either o' them. His mum was the prettiest, flirtiest girl. You'd've thought her part veela. His dad was a big, jovial chap—a drinker an' a gam'ler. Those two had everythin' withou' workin' a day fer it. Everythin' but a child. When the Missus saw her Mister driftin' away, she got herself a boy to reel him back. Professor Dumbledore arranged it."

Harry sat back, full of questions. Who were Snape's birth parents? Why had Dumbledore handled their baby's adoption? Had they been teenagers the headmaster had helped avoid a scandal? When he looked to Hagrid, the half-giant just shook his head and chomped his raisin cake. Before Harry could think of something to prod him, his friend swallowed and went on.

"I 'spect it worked fer awhile. Then they _both_ los' interest. Yeh'd catch 'em in the gossip pages o' _The Daily Prophet_—him gam'lin' at some charity even', her dancin' at another. No thought fer their li'l boy. Sev'rus spen' so much time with tutors tha' when he come ter Hogwarts, he knew more than many a fourth year."

Harry remembered the first day he'd walked into Snape's classroom, the professor scornfully asking if the famous Harry Potter knew the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane. And Sirius had claimed that Snape arrived knowing more curses than most students did when they graduated. "So he was a top student?"

"Eventually. But fer awhile Avery sidetracked him. Their first year they became cronies. Inevitable, yeh migh' say. Both sent ter Hogwarts by old, wealthy, pureblood families. Both sorted into Slytherin. But Sev'rus had wha' yeh migh' call _an unfortunate manner_, an' I 'spect he was anxious fer a friend. Willimar could charm—if he though' yeh migh' be useful. Can yeh imagine how useful a lazy git like him foun' a scholar like Sev'rus?"

Harry leaned his chin in his hand. His memory of Wilhelm's father was of the Death Eater groveling before Lord Voldemort. Difficult to imagine that the Hogwarts Potions master had once deferred to him. "Snape did Avery's schoolwork?"

"_Professor_ Snape, yes, I believe he did qui' a bit of it—all fer the privilege o' bein' Avery's pal. They became a double act o' the worst kind. Young Will would deem someone unworthy; Sev'rus would think up the stingin' insult. At the time, I was only the gamekeeper an' my reputation was un'er a cloud. Yeh can imagine how they treated me."

Harry could. "Then why in the world do you seem to _like_ him?"

"Things changed."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Yeah, a different "backstory" for Snape. His actual backstory hadn't been revealed when this fic was written! Please review!


	18. Ghosts

_**Chapter 18**_

**GHOSTS**

Hagrid shrugged. "I wouldn' be tellin' yeh this 'cept the gossip was in all the papers an' yeh could o' found it out in the library. At the start o' Sev'rus's seventh year, his dad bet an' lost not jus' all the family had but _more_ than the family had. His mum run off with some Muggle millionaire from Brazil. His dad jus' disappeared. To this day the goblins use his name ter remind gam'lers what happens when they don' settle accounts."

Harry stared at Hagrid. He'd never imagined such a story in Snape's past. "That must have been a shock."

Hagrid nodded. "I never knew how Sev'rus felt 'bout losin' his dad, but losin' the money knocked him down a notch. Avery dropped him, tha's fer sure. Thought he'd have ter leave Hogwarts, too, 'til Albus appointed him assistant to the Potions master. Made it look like an honor, not jus' a way ter pay his bill. Sev'rus became respons'ble fer procurin' the ingredients the Potions master needed." Hagrid shot Harry a mischievous look. "And fer ingredients that came from magical creatures, he had ter come ter me."

Harry grinned. "A chance to get a bit of your own back?"

"At first, I admit. Bu' after awhile I grew t'respect him—an' him me."

Still smiling, Harry shook his head. Was there ever a man kinder and more forgiving than Hagrid? Just yesterday, Snape announced he'd reported him to the Ministry for unauthorized use of his broken wand, yet Hagrid could still talk about respect. "And since he needed a job when he got out of school, he decided to aim for professor?"

"Not at all. When Sev'rus was young, what he really wanted ter be was an auror—summat gran' an' splashy, summat ter make people goggle. He was a great fan o' the Longbottoms."

"Fan?" Of_ Neville's _parents_? _That was hard to believe.

"Yes. In the days when aurors' work was directed outside the wizardin' circle—against vampires, ghouls, banshees an' the like—reporters, people like Rita Skeeter, wrote up their exploits regularly. When Sev'rus came by fer hippogriff toenails or centaur spit or what have yeh, he'd ask what new magazines I'd got an' sit righ' where yeh're sittin' now ter read 'em. The Longbottoms were qui' popular."

Harry remembered Dumbledore using just that phrase. He hadn't known being ballyhooed in the press was part of what he'd meant.

Hagrid sighed. "O' course, once You-Know-Who started bringin' the dark arts into our midst an' nobody knew _who_ ter trust, bein' a famous auror became a bit of a hazard. Nowadays they work pretty secret."

Too late for the Longbottoms, Harry knew. Because of their fame, they'd been kidnapped by Voldemort's diehard supporters and tortured into madness. Thinking of the Longbottoms naturally made him think of their as-good-as-orphaned son.

"Poor Neville," Hagrid said as if reading Harry's thoughts. "Such a timid soul. There's a nut tha' fell all the way on the other side o' the fence. Albus's spoken ter Sev'rus 'bout bein' too rough on the boy. I 'spect Sev'rus thinks he can bully him into showin' some o' his dad's spirit."

Hagrid gnawed his raisin cake. Harry's mind circled back to his original purpose in coming. He mentally kicked himself for lacking the guts to bring up what was really bothering him. Moistening his lips, he ventured, "Snape—Professor Snape—knew my dad at school and hated him. What about ... my mom? Were they ever—"

"_They?" _Hagrid exploded into laughter. He shook so hard in his chair, the wood floor began to tremble. "Se-Sev'rus an' Lily?" Another laughing fit choked his words. "Li-lily an' Se-ver-us?"

The more Hagrid laughed, the broader the relieved smile that perked up Harry's mouth. Snape and his mother—anyone could see the idea was ridiculous.

Hagrid wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Oh, Harry! Yer mum an' dad were a pair from year one. She didn' always go adventurin' with him—in those days us men were still a bit too protective o' the ladies. Hermione's been an education, I can tell yeh. An' that Cho! But otherwise, James an' Lily were inseparable. Wha' in the world made yeh think—" Another roar of laughter overtook him. But as it died into a ripple of chuckles, his expression grew reflective. "Of course, Lily an' Sev'rus _did_ work together."

A cold lump formed in Harry's stomach. "What do you mean _work together_?"

"Well, the same time Sev'rus became the Potions master's assistant, yer mum became hospital assistant. An' the hospital uses more potions than any place, so sometimes Lily got involved in makin' 'em."

A vision of the two alone together in some dark dungeon of Hogwarts loomed in Harry's mind—his sweet-faced mother innocently stirring a bubbling cauldron, Snape hovering behind her like a great big bat.

Hagrid cast his eyes across his sun-dappled oak table. "Right here. I remember 'em grindin' up wyvern scales an' debatin' the need ter protect endangered magical creatures. The notion was novel at the time, but I liked it righ' away. Yer mum an' I hated the slaughterin' o' beasts. Sev'rus said it was necessary. Argumen' after argumen' they had—Sev'rus flingin' out bitin' sarcasm; Lily returnin' calm reason. In the end he came 'round—saw the wisdom o' not killin' the last unicorn. An' he _still_ believes in preservation. Why jus' this mornin' he came ter ask if I'd found any chimera teeth that'd broken off. Needed one fer a special potion, he did, but wouldn' kill jus' fer a tooth."

Harry sunk low in his chair, afraid to look at the table. Somehow the image of Snape and his mother working side-by-side in the sunlight, arguing endangered animals while Hagrid looked on, disturbed him more than any of his previous speculations. When Ron and Hermione debated house elves, the electricity between them was undeniable.

Hastily, Hagrid rose from his chair and fussed around the table, gathering up the bowl-sized teacups, the tureen-sized sugar bowl and Harry's untouched slab of raisin cake. When Harry glanced at him, his friend looked away.

"Yer mum was smitten with yer dad—long before any o' that. Nothin' could o' swayed her. An' Sev'rus, well, yer mum wouldn't've been his type. She was Muggle-born, after all, an' a Gryffindor, an' _definitely_ not his type. Guess yeh could say they were frien's. Sev'rus was _really_ broken up when she died—but _everyone_ who knew Lily fel' that way. I wep' buckets. No kin'er, gen'ler woman anywhere."

Snape really broken up over anything was not easy to picture. Instead of reassuring, Hagrid's explanations made Harry more uncomfortable still. Forcing a smile, he pushed back from the table. "Thanks for the tea and for introducing me to Waldo. I feel much more confident about leading him around at the fete." Even if he felt less confident about everything else.

Hagrid nodded vaguely. The look on his face said he was seeing ghosts—and wondering things about them he'd never wondered before.

* * *

Late that night, after every other Gryffindor had gone to bed, Harry quietly returned to the common room, clutching the wizard photograph album of his parents Hagrid had so thoughtfully put together for him at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. He set the leather-bound volume on the bearskin rug in front of the hearth, added some chunks of wood to the guttering fire, and lit a candle with his wand. Then he flopped down and opened the album.

He went through his parents' school years slowly, lingering on any picture that showed James and Lily together. The more time he spent gazing into those years gone by, the more at peace he felt. In photo after photo, his mom would shoot his dad a mischievous smile that expressed affection greater than words. His dad's answering wink would say that here was the girl of his dreams, and nothing would ever change that.

Stifling a yawn, Harry decided to look at one more picture, his favorite: his father zooming across the Quidditch field. The players' red and yellow robes identified this as the traditional last match of the season: Ravenclaw against Gryffindor. The crowd had gone wild. In the middle of the stands, friends and admirers jumped to their feet as James shot the Quaffle again and again through the Gryffindor hoops. Harry could pick out Remus Lupin waving excitedly and Sirius Black with his mouth open to scream victory. Even Peter Pettigrew was grinning and clapping, innocent of the tragedy he would one day create for the man on the broom.

And in the middle of the old gang stood James's biggest fan. Harry's mother-to-be was hugging herself, her face ecstatic as her eyes followed her sweetheart's every move. The portrait of happiness was so comforting that Harry gazed at it for several minutes.

Then another figure edged into view, one he'd not seen any of the previous times he'd looked at the photograph. Though twenty-five years younger, Severus Snape with his pale skin, long nose and unkempt hair was unmistakable. He cast a venomous scowl at James Potter grabbing the Quaffle ahead of one of the Ravenclaw Chasers. Then he turned.

Harry watched Snape's dark eyes pick Lily out of the crowd and saw his anger fade into an expression so desperate and desolate that he no longer looked like himself. A shiver ran across Harry's shoulders, and he slammed the album shut. He stared at the fireplace. Even the embers had died. Around him the shadows seemed to be closing in.

In this very room his parents and their friends had joked and chatted and dreamed of the future. Twenty-five years later, Remus scrounged for work far beneath his abilities; Sirius evaded Dementors because of a crime he hadn't committed; Peter cringed before Lord Voldemort; and James and Lily were dead. Of the people Harry had watched in the picture, Severus Snape had fared the best—secure as Potions master of Hogwarts. Yet instead of being contented, he let bitterness consume him.

What lay in store for his friends and him when they left school for the big wide world? Tonight, Harry couldn't bear to think about it.

Quickly, he scooped up his photograph album, anxious to return to his friends' comforting snores. He blew out the candle and held out his wand. "Lumos." By the faint light glowing at the tip, he made his way to the stairs, ignoring the darkness on either side.

"Ghosts," he whispered.

* * *

**Author's Note**: You've read this far! Please review. It is _never_ annoying to get feedback. Thanks!


	19. Dawn

_**Chapter 19**_

**DAWN**

The next day, a ghost brought Harry's concerns firmly back to the present. When he swung back the portrait of the fat lady to exit Gryffindor Tower on Monday morning, his left arm went straight through Nearly Headless Nick on the other side. The sensation of plunging into an ice cap made him fall backward onto his book pack.

Nick was too het up to notice. "Where is Minerva? I must speak to Minerva. That Severus Snape. Who does he think he is?" The ghost was so distracted that he allowed his head to loll from side to side.

"Uh, Professor McGonagall isn't—" Harry stopped because the subject of his sentence was rushing up the hall.

"Sir Nicholas," she called out respectfully, "Sir Nicholas. The good friar told me you wanted—"

Nick whirled so fast that his head took a moment to catch up. "What's this about Snape refusing to let the Almost Axed Acrobats perform? We've added five members! We've practiced and practiced! Snape knows that better than anybody. He gave us no inkling he wouldn't approve. But the Bloody Baron said Snape put his foot down." Nick stamped his own foot for emphasis, although it was too insubstantial to make a sound.

Professor McGonagall raised her hands calmingly. "Severus thought perhaps it might not be appropriate—"

"Appropriate! Isn't Cirque du Soleil known around the world? Doesn't the Peking Circus entertain the queen?"

Slowly, Harry got back on his feet. He didn't know what performance of the Almost Axed Acrobats Nick was fuming about, but he did think it a stretch to compare robust humans in leotards to partially dismembered ghosts, one of whom had an axe planted in the middle of her skull.

"We'd love you to perform," McGonagall soothed. "Hallowe'en would be—"

"A whole 'nother year away!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. What was one year to a being who'd been around for over five hundred?

"Sooner, then. At the St. Mungo's Spirit of Giving Fete. Your own special ... spirit show."

This time Nick paused. "We _were_ looking forward to Christmas. For the finale, we planned to form a giant tree."

Professor McGonagall blinked rapidly, as if struggling to retain her composure. "I'll propose adding you to the charity fete at the next staff meeting. _The Almost Axed Acrobats in Midwinter ... Madness. _I won't let Severus veto the idea."

"The Bloody Baron told me Snape called us a bunch of discombobulated buffoons who couldn't be allowed to ruin the night." Nick lifted his chin. "I prefer to think of us as free spirits."

With that statement, his form began to dissipate into wisps that slowly drifted up the hallway. Professor McGonagall leaned back to avoid a smoky curl.

Harry stepped over the Gryffindor threshold and up to his housemistress. "What was that about the Almost Axed Acrobats wanting to perform at Christmas?"

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. "The announcement is to be made at breakfast, but I might as well tell you now. Last year's Yule Ball was so popular that the headmaster wants to make it a yearly event. It'll be a week before Christmas this time because so many parents complained that their children preferred to stay for it rather than going home."

_Another Yule Ball_. Why was his throat suddenly dry? For the same reason his stomach felt hollow and his head felt light. Of the tasks he'd faced the year of the Triwizard Tournament, the challenge of finding someone to escort to the Yule Ball had placed slightly above tricking the Hungarian Horntail. At the same time, Harry felt a sizzle of excitement. The Yule Ball would be a do or die deadline to find out how Cho really felt.

Professor McGonagall folded her arms inside her long black robes. "I was surprised Severus had such a strong reaction to Nick's offer, but I'm glad he did. Can you imagine those hacked up spooks cavorting above the dance floor? The mind boggles."

With that, she pivoted and strode back up the hall. Harry stayed, fiddling with the straps on his book pack. This year he'd ask Cho early. This year he'd just do it. As he resolutely followed Professor McGonagall, he could feel his heart beating double time.

* * *

During Wudang Shen meditation exercises Sunday night, Cho so insisted on concentration that Harry didn't dare bring up something as mundane as the Yule Ball. Monday and Tuesday, his nerve failed him. Even when Cho smiled and said that the following morning, he could start flying, he couldn't muster the courage to pop the question.

Wednesday, when he slipped outside before sunrise, the sky was polished obsidian, the stars were diamonds, and the half-moon was a luminous chip of pure magic. Cho waited at the end of the patio, gazing up at the glittering beauty. Harry gazed at her. In less than an hour, Hogwarts would awaken. Right now he had Cho to himself. If he couldn't ask her in the midst of this splendor, he never would.

She turned, as if aware of him watching, though he'd done his best to not make a sound. "Good morning, Harry. Time to fly. Breathe deeply, open your thoughts, and follow me."

With that, she leapt, whipped her legs into an aerial run and shot out into space. Her energy filled him. But he didn't follow her yet. Methodically, he exhaled all the stale air. He expanded his abdomen, and then his chest. Lifting his shoulders and opening his mouth, he drew the pre-dawn chill deep into his lungs. Chanting mentally as he'd practiced for weeks, he bounded between the marble dragons. All the while, he focused on Cho, floating over the frosted gardens.

Then he took off.

His legs made great strides above the patchwork of dead, gray flowers. His robes spread behind him. Smoothly, he arced back to earth, only to spring once more toward the sky.

_I'm flying! _Harry thought happily and, for a moment, took himself out of the magic. As he began to drop, he looked again to Cho. Her laughter was as effervescent as morning sparrows. Her spirit buoyed him up again, and he vaulted toward her. Passing in midair, he reached out and just missed her fingers.

Wheeling and dipping with Cho recalled the square dance magic of Halloween—except that this time he was both enchanter and enchanted. Cho's view of magic, passed down to her through generations of magical women, was of bonding with the flow of wonder that always surrounded them. As they wove closer and closer to the forest, he sensed their lives intersecting as well. No moment was more perfect than now for asking Cho the question that would tell him whether she was his girlfriend or just a friend who was a girl.

With a few airborne strides, Harry brought himself face-to-face with her. "Cho. The Yule Ball is coming up in a couple of weeks. Do you think—could you, would you consider, well, going to it with me?"

The instant Cho heard his question, her smile faded. "I can't."

Harry began to plummet.

As the ground rushed up at him, his fear of smashing into it loomed larger than his disappointment. He clutched at whatever strands of magic he could, pumped his legs, and aimed toward a giant oak several yards away. His decaying arc made him fear he'd miss it. Then he caught sight of a sturdy branch and grabbed for it. When he pulled himself up, he saw Cho already clinging to the tree, looking shaken.

"Harry. Let me explain. The reason I can't is—"

"What are you children doing up there?"

The harsh voice exploded through the darkness, startling them both. Harry peered through the branches to the clearing on the other side. His stomach twisted. Snape, recognizable despite his hood, was standing with his hands on his hips, glowering at the out-of-bed students. Beyond him, Harry thought he could make out a steaming cauldron.

"Oh, no," Cho breathed beside him. "Does being in this tree technically put us in the Enchanted Forest?"

"Being caught _anywhere_ by Snape technically would put us—" Harry cut his sentence short. The professor had stalked through the underbrush and was now standing beneath them, pointing his wand.

"Come down. Now. I'll direct you. First Miss Chang. Then Potter."

Cho obeyed. Harry followed. If Wundang Shen had filled him with wondrous power, having his fall controlled by Snape made him feel weak and useless.

When Snape glanced back over his shoulder, Harry's gaze followed to a rose-pink potion shimmering over a sapphire flame. He lost sight of it when he thumped on the ground.

Snape grabbed his wrist, yanked him up and thrust him towards Hogwarts. Harry stumbled, then began plodding to the castle. Head bowed, Cho trudged beside him. They continued in silence until they'd climbed the stairs to the porch.

"That's far enough."

When Harry turned, Snape's gaze was probing.

"Sir," Cho said quickly, "I was teaching Harry Wudang Shen."

When Snape continued to study him, Harry put in, "That's the ancient Chinese discipline of—"

"I know what it is," the professor snapped. Then a bitter smile twisted his lips. "It all comes so easily to you, doesn't it, Potter?" When his dark eyes flickered to Cho, Harry wondered whether Snape was referring to flying.

"Not that easily, sir," Cho answered. "Which is why we came out so early to—"

"Without permission. Without a chaperone. Someone less tolerant than myself would say you were dangerously close to committing PDA."

When Harry saw Cho cast her eyes down in embarrassment, he stole a glance at the professor. _PDA? _He couldn't possibly mean Personal Digital Assistant. But what else? _Permissionless dawn adventure? Permanently disabling activity?_

"PDA would be grounds for detention and for deducting points from both your houses. Take warning."

Snape's intense scrutiny receded into a brooding look that let Harry relax. At least, neither of them was getting detention now. Then he frowned. Why was the professor being so _reasonable_? Was he, perhaps, remembering some permissionless dawn adventure he'd had with Lily? _No. Never. _

"The Enchanted Forest is especially treacherous at night," the professor added. "Sometimes I must go there to gather potion ingredients that lose their power during the day. It's your good luck I was taking a walk and could stop you from getting into danger."

Harry nodded, not letting his face betray his sudden curiosity. _Why was Snape pretending he hadn't been brewing a potion?_

With a jerk of his wand, the professor swung the front doors open. "Go inside. Now. Each to your own house."

"Yes, sir."

Snape pivoted on his heel and strode off—back to his cauldron, no doubt. When Harry looked at Cho, she looked away. A knot forming in his stomach, he entered Hogwarts. She hung a few yards back, painfully reminding him of her answer: _I can't. _

But once the doors closed behind them, he heard her whisper, "Psst. Wait."

Turning, Harry watched Cho hurry towards him until she was close enough to make his heart skip.

"I'd love to go the Yule Ball with you. But I have family obligations. The morning after the term ends, I'm leaving for China to visit my great-great-grandmother."

Cho's soft smile was all the reassurance Harry needed. He wanted to spill everything—how long he'd dreamed of her, how she inspired him, how much he adored her. But his self-confidence didn't quite reach _that_ far. With a sinking feeling, he realized he couldn't even divulge his questions about Snape to her. Somehow Cho was still outside the circle of friends with whom he shared those worries. Instead he asked, "The great-great-grandmother who taught you Wudang Shen?"

Cho nodded, and her satiny black hair cascaded down her shoulder. "She stays in a monastery high in the Wudang Mountains—a glorious place. You should see it."

Warmth suffused Harry. "I'll miss you, but I'm glad you have a chance to visit your great-great-grandmother. She must be quite a lady."

"She is. In a hundred years, I couldn't attain her mastery at Wudang Shen."

_A hundred years. _Harry cocked his head. "How old _is_ your great-great-grandmother? I'd think she'd be a bit frail for flying."

Cho grinned. "Flying is no problem for her. And she's only fifty-five."

"Fifty-five?" Harry repeated in surprise. With a quick calculation, he figured that four generations would have had to borne children at age ten.

"Fifty-five when she died," Cho amended. "My great-great-grandmother is a ghost."

* * *

**Please!** Tell me what you think.


	20. Cramming

_**Chapter 20**_

**CRAMMING**

Harry ran his thumb down the parchment on which he'd collected pertinent facts about familiars. Hagrid's classes were so practice-oriented that his lecture notes fit on one two-foot scroll. Despite his lack of interest, Advanced Potions had taken up three four-foot scrolls. The intricate theories of Temporal Transfiguration had required five.

"Okay, Ron. What are the four ways animal companions help their guardians perform magic?"

Ron continued staring out their study nook, down the cavern formed by two long bookcases, to the library entrance. "Where _is_ she? Probably still working on her letter to Viktor Krum."

Harry blew out his breath. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to be sucked into the electromagnetic storm brewing between his two best friends. Pretending he hadn't heard Ron's question, he answered his own. "One: familiars carry out spells at their guardians' direction. Two: they amplify the power of their guardians' spells. Three: they allow their guardians to impel others to carry out their spells. And four: they—"

"Notice how secretive she's becoming?" Ron glared at the doorway that Hermione wasn't entering. "Hanging out with Moaning Myrtle. Yeah, right."

Frustrated, Harry let go of his parchment and watched it curl back up. Lately, he'd been hanging out so much with Cho that he hadn't noticed _what_ Hermione had been up to, but he was certain Ron was making a big deal out of nothing. "Do you want to drill for Magical Companions, or not? The test's tomorrow, and I—"

"—have another appointment," Ron finished sourly. From his friend's scowl, Harry knew that his newfound rapport with Cho wasn't making Ron's troubles with Hermione any easier to bear. Before Harry could respond, his friend sighed. "And all power to you."

For twenty minutes, Harry kept Ron's mind on topic while they tested each other to the ends of both their parchments. Even so, he felt guilty when he dashed out to meet Cho to review the seven scrolls they'd filled for Professor Binns. When he crawled through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room at ten and saw Ron slumped on a corner sofa, he hid Cho's early Christmas present to him inside his robes.

Summoning a pleasant smile, Harry sat down beside his friend. "After all the revising we did for Magical Companions, what do you bet the only thing Hagrid tests is whether or not we can exchange a message with our familiar? You'd have been better off working with Pig than with me."

Ron continued frowning as if he hadn't heard. Then he mumbled, "I'm worried about her."

Harry knew his friend didn't mean his owl. "Why? Hermione can take care of herself."

Ron shook his head. "Did you know that the entire time we were waiting for her, she was already _in_ the library? After you left, I found her at a table on the other side, reading through three stacks of arcane potions texts up to here." He jabbed his own Adam's apple.

"That high sitting or—" When Ron glared, Harry straightened his glasses. "Come on. You know Hermione's been into esoteric manuscripts since we first came to Hogwarts. Snape probably mentioned some obscure formula when you and I were dozing, and she just _had_ to look it up. If we're lucky, we can wheedle the information out of her without having to research it ourselves."

"She was acting _weird_. When I asked her about Magical Companions, she said, 'Memorized it.' Just before you came, she lurched in here looking even worse. When I tried to talk to her, all she said was, 'O.W.L.s,' and stumbled up to her room."

Harry smiled. "That explains it. Everyone at Hogwarts knows she'll be top of the year as always—everyone, that is, except Hermione. She can't help being afraid there's something she missed."

Ron looked unconvinced.

"Well, I'm going to bed myself." He had one more Wudang Shen session with Cho the next morning before they put flying on hold until the next term. This time they had written permission from both McGonagall and Flitwick. Snape would have no excuse to threaten them with _permissionless dawn adventure_ detention.

Once Harry had drawn his bed curtains, settled under his covers, and lit his wand, he drew out the book of ancient Chinese magic Cho had given him. The text was in inked characters with a literal and an interpreted English translation. Stroking the intricately carved wooden cover, he decided to start with the word-for-word version, though most of it might be incomprehensible. The very title, _Seven Tablets in a Cloudy Satchel_, evoked images as mysterious and exhilarating as Cho herself.

To him she was pure magic.

* * *

Saturday morning, Ron sent Harry's spirits even higher. As he scanned his weekly owl post from his mother, he let out a whoop. "Mum's asked Dumbledore if you can spend the holidays at the Burrow. Won't that be great?"

Harry was thrilled. His first Christmas with a family that actually liked him.

Sunday evening, Professor McGonagall dashed his spirits back down. "I'm sorry, Potter, but your request for leave has been denied."

Harry's jaw dropped a moment before he managed, "But I've visited the Weasleys before—every summer for the last three years. Is it the Dursleys? They refused to authorize it, didn't they? They're spiteful. Just plain spiteful."

His housemistress pursed her lips sympathetically. "It wasn't your family. It was the headmaster. He told me he had a good reason. That was all he would say."

When Harry gave Ron the bad news, his friend slumped into a chair. After a minute of frowning, he murmured, "This is terrible."

"I know," Harry sighed, flopping into the chair next to him. "I was really looking forward—"

"Not just that," Ron said. "It's the implication. These failed attempts on your life—Dumbledore is worried that if you're out of his sight, the next one might succeed. What other good reason could he have for not letting you go?"

Harry took his glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose. Ever since the shock of hearing his mother's name on Snape's tongue, the question of who had been trying to kill him had paled in importance. "If that's it, then Dumbledore's being overly protective. It's been more than three weeks since the griffin incident. The Enchanted Preserve gamekeeper said he couldn't figure out how he'd misread the order. Hagrid knows him and is certain the mistake was honest. And the dragon statue incident, well, we probably misinterpreted it."

Ron eyed Harry skeptically. "Do you really believe that?"

_No_. "Why shouldn't I? If Dumbledore thought I was in danger, wouldn't he take more precautions than just keeping me at Hogwarts? I'm positive the sticking point is really the Dursleys—no matter what McGonagall said."

"Maybe." Ron shrugged. "Those Muggles are medieval, honestly. I can't believe you're related by blood. If they could, they'd burn you at the stake."

Harry laughed and returned his glasses to his nose. "Don't judge all non-magical folk by my relatives. Hermione would never forgive you." As soon as he mentioned her, he wished he hadn't. The worry lines in Ron's forehead only deepened.

"Whatever you do, Harry, don't tell Hermione what Dumbledore said. Pretend staying behind is your idea. She's got enough on her mind."

* * *

Monday afternoon, Harry had a hard time dragging Ron down to Snape's dungeon. Instead of facing their last Potions test of the term, Ron wanted to do an all-out search for Hermione.

"Don't worry," Harry soothed. "When we didn't see her this morning, it was because she'd snagged a quick breakfast from the elves and headed for the library. That's what Dobby told me. She probably did the same for lunch.

Ron hovered in Snape's doorway, staring up the stairs as if he could will Hermione to appear in the crowd of students tromping toward them. "Dobby told _me_ she looked odd."

Avery, flanked by Malfoy and shadowed by Crabbe and Goyle, swaggered down the staircase. Malfoy stopped on the last step to drawl, "Saw your girlfriend, Weasley, cowering behind a heap of books in the library. I knew that mudblood would crack one of these days."

Harry gripped Ron's shoulder. But instead of confronting Malfoy, his friend turned to him. "I _told_ you we should go look for her."

Watching the Slytherins strut by, Harry felt uneasy for the first time. "You're right. She'd never miss a test. Maybe Madame Pomfrey should—"

As the words left his mouth, Hermione appeared at the top of the steps. But her glazed expression only heightened Harry's concern. When Neville caught up with her, she didn't return his greeting. When her gaze passed over Harry and Ron, her fixed stare didn't change. She appeared to be mumbling under her breath.

Ron reached her first, taking her hand and guiding her the rest of the way. She answered his questions with, "Fine. Been reading. Remember it. All of it."

Harry took a position on Hermione's other side, keeping an eye out for any Slytherin foot stuck in the aisle to trip them. As usual for Snape's tests, a scroll tied with a _no cheating_ ribbon lay on each acid-scarred desk. On the far side of the room, forty cauldrons simmering over forty blue fires waited to mystify them.

When Ron piloted Hermione to her stool, she repeated, "Fine."

Before Harry could share a worried frown with his friend, Snape swooped out of his office, compelling their attention.

"You have sixty minutes to answer the essay questions. At the end of that time, the scrolls will roll themselves up and return to me. Any eyes gazing at a scroll not their own will find themselves blinded until New Year's. Ready. Begin."

* * *

**Hello! **Okay, so, what do you think?


	21. Memory

_**Chapter 21**_

**MEMORY**

Hermione had spent the essay portion of Snape's test writing non-stop. _That was a good sign_, Harry thought. But every time he'd glanced at her, her lips had been moving. Now they'd progressed to the practical portion of the test. Even the professor's warning glances hadn't stopped her mouth from forming a steady stream of silent words.

Ron stood before Snape, peering nervously at a fizzing red concoction that stank like an undershirt after a full day of Quidditch. "It's Remember Me Potion, sir. At least, it will be after you add string, uh, nine millimeters of cotton string."

Snape's sallow face remained impassive, not betraying by even a flicker of an eyelid whether Ron had been correct. "Would you give such a potion to a living entity?"

"Uh, no, sir. It would kill. You'd sprinkle it on an object that you don't want to forget to bring with you somewhere."

Harry frowned at the mustard-colored goo he'd been asked to identify. Had he been right to name it Misspeak Potion? Or was it really half-brewed Glory?

"Next," Snape announced, neither acknowledging nor dismissing Ron.

Harry nudged Hermione toward a cauldron filled with a bile-green liquid reminiscent of partially brewed truth potion. She moved toward it like a sleepwalker.

"Miss Granger. Identify."

"Veritaserum."

_I was right_, Harry thought. Too bad that hadn't been his question.

"Three quarts melted snow," Hermione recited. "Four grains mashed candori root. Steep eleven minutes. Blend in seven drams sphinx—"

"That's enough. You weren't asked to show off."

When Hermione didn't stop droning, only lowered her voice, Harry cringed. Any moment now, red spots would appear on Snape's cheekbones.

But instead, the black eyes narrowed speculatively. "Miss Granger, you have convinced me that you've memorized the formula and are qualified for employment by the Auror Investigational Service. No doubt you're aware that information extracted by veritaserum is inadmissible in court unless independently substantiated. Tell me why."

Hermione stared blankly at the cauldron, then resumed repeating ingredients and preparation steps. Crabbe sniggered.

_Because the truth of any information revealed is only partial_, Harry urged her silently. _Different viewpoints are necessary to truly understand it_.

"That's enough, Miss Granger," Snape said as Hermione continued rambling. "Enough. Go stand by my office door. I will speak to you after the lesson."

Avery and Malfoy exchanged triumphant smirks. Reluctantly, Harry let Hermione stumble off alone. Talking to her during the test would just get her into more trouble. Ron swayed, as if also suppressing an urge to follow.

"Next."

Only Neville was left. Harry could see him trembling in his shoes. When Snape pointed imperiously at the last cauldron, their housemate inched forward.

"Tranquility potion, sir," Neville whispered without being asked. "Nearly."

Snape's face stayed expressionless as he extended a lavender phial. "Complete the brew and bring us all some peace."

Shakily, Neville reached for the small bottle. "Essence of bluebird song," he rasped. "Just a drop." At first, he couldn't dislodge the cork. Then he gave it a sharp tug. The phial popped open, and its entire contents sprayed into the cauldron.

A sensation swept over Harry of a flock of birds squawking and pecking. Classmates shrieked and flailed at invisible pests. Flinging his arms over his head, Neville crumpled to the floor. By Snape's office door, Hermione remained stiff as a post.

"The lesson is over," the Potions master shouted above the pandemonium. "Class dismissed. Everyone except Miss Granger and Longbottom."

Harry took several deep breaths, digging deep for the discipline Cho had tried to teach him. Ignoring the crawling feeling overwhelming his arms and legs, he hurried to Hermione. Ron joined him, swatting at non-existent birds. They each took one of her hands and pulled her into the office. Turning, Harry saw Snape chanting one of the many spells he used to cancel student catastrophes. By the time the rest of the students had fled, the atmosphere of horrible discomfort was gone as well.

As the professor stalked toward them, Ron begged, "Please, sir. She's ill."

Snape inspected her coolly. "Self-inflicted." He glanced from Harry to Ron. "The ever faithful. You two might as well come along." He closed his door behind them and strode to his desk.

Harry and Ron kept their mouths shut while they waited for Snape to settle in his chair. Harry squeezed Hermione's fingers, hoping to stop her babbling.

"Elixir of Infinite Memory," Snape said at last. "The very potion I warned against when lecturing about memory enhancement. Miss Granger just had to try it."

Harry's mouth opened a little as he remembered that long ago session of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Any pupil willing to use a Time-Turner to double up lessons for a year would leap at the chance for total recall. Now he knew what Hermione had been doing in the library: memorizing volumes whole.

Snape leaned back in his mahogany chair. "I'm tempted to expel you from my class for trying to gain an unfair advantage over your fellow students."

Hermione looked stunned—but not more so than when staring at her examination cauldron.

"Yet I am rather impressed you managed to turn out such a complex potion." Snape studied her uncomprehending face with amusement. "Tell me, what is the formula for Weltschmerz Tonic as described in Rauschen, Lautheit, and Schreien's _Bavarian Desideratum_?"

Like one drugged, Hermione rattled off a list of ingredients ranging from cockatrice eggs to eidelweiss blossoms, along with the exact measurements, preparation steps, and infusion times. She ended by stating the page number.

"My compliments. And its uses?"

"Relief of melancholy, angst, and the burdens of the world."

"Yes," Snape answered. "I believe that's a quote from the text. Tell me, if Potter skinned his knee running late to class, would you give him Weltschmerz Tonic? Or would you save it for the day he discovers that one desire all the applause in the world can never win for him?"

Hermione's dazed look didn't change. Harry glared at the professor.

Snape glanced at him sidelong. "Nothing personal, of course. Just demonstrating the disadvantages of infinite memory. So much lumber is stacked in Miss Granger's brain at the moment that she is incapable of determining what it might build."

Ron turned to Hermione, his forehead pinched with worry. He waved a hand in front of her eyes. When she didn't react, he grasped her shoulders.

Snape laughed. "Shake away, young Weasley. Miss Granger made too potent a potion for that to have an effect. To my knowledge, only one other fifth-year ever made one as successful—with the same problematical results, I'm afraid."

Harry gave Snape a measuring look. "And how did he get over it?"

The professor smiled faintly. "His housemates walked him to his bed, placed a blindfold over his eyes, closed the curtains, and left him for three days while a dozen library shelves of potions and spells rolled mercilessly through his brain."

"Three days?" Still staring into Hermione's blank brown eyes, Ron swallowed hard.

Snape didn't answer, instead bending to rummage in a low drawer. "Happily for Miss Granger, an antidote now exists." Straightening, he held out a slim magenta vial. "Take this and her to Madame Pomfrey. I'll send instructions for how to administer the drops. Afterwards, she must lie in a dark corner of the infirmary. By evening, Miss Granger's conscious mind should be free of the wisdom of the ages."

Ron took the vial in one hand and gingerly retook Hermione's hand in his other. "She'll forget everything she read?"

"Never. Her unconscious memory should retain each word—although it may take her years to sort it all."

Harry glanced from his friends to Snape. "You said you wouldn't make her leave the class."

"Did I?" Snape shrugged. "When she returns from holiday, she must give a quarter-hour class presentation on the drawbacks of memory enhancing potions." He paused. "And she must write me a step-by-step account of how she made it."

Harry shot Ron a relieved grin. Even if Snape didn't remember it, unburdening himself under the influence of Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder must have done him some good. Never before had he shown such mercy.

The professor's smile broadened. "And ten points from Gryffindor."

* * *

When Harry and Ron trudged out of Snape's office, steering Hermione, between them, she resumed reeling off potion recipes like an automaton. Harry had forgotten about Neville until Snape's voice rang out: "Longbottom."

Neville squeaked.

Harry caught sight of his classmate, hyperventilating in the corner. "Are you—?"

"Okay," Neville whimpered.

"Buck up," Ron said. "He's in an awfully good mood. Slytherin just gained on Gryffindor by ten points."

"Longbottom!" Snape called again.

As they exited the dungeon, Harry whispered to Ron. "Hermione losing us points doesn't look so bad when you consider the alternative: being kicked out of Potions. Poor Neville."

* * *

**Please review!**


	22. Asking

_**Chapter 22**_

**ASKING**

By settling in time that evening, Hermione still had not returned to Gryffindor Tower. Harry curled up in an overstuffed chair with _Seven Tablets in a Cloudy Satchel_. Not taking Cho to the Yule Ball was disappointing, but holding her token of friendship wasn't bad.

Ron fidgeted—starting a chess game with Seamus, abandoning it for his Temporal Transfiguration essay, running upstairs for an extra parchment, returning with his wand to practice digestive charms. Still restless, he collapsed into a chair next to Harry. "Who are you taking to the Yule Ball?"

Harry shrugged. "The girl I wanted to take is leaving on holiday early. At least I didn't lose out by waiting till the last minute." He glanced at his friend. "You'd better ask early this time—so you don't get scooped."

"I don't know. I mean, I planned to do it this evening. But the girl . . ." Ron blew out his breath. "She probably wouldn't go with me anyway."

"Ask!" As Harry repeated his admonition, the portrait of the fat lady swung inward and Hermione stepped over the threshold. Before he could nudge Ron, he saw a blissfully grinning Neville climb into the common room after her. Crookshanks sent a welcoming _meow_ from across the room, then returned to his evening bath.

Harry had no time to tell Hermione how much better she looked before she blurted out, "The most extraordinary thing. About Professor Snape. Well, Neville, it's your story."

Their fellow Gryffindor hurried toward them. "I thought Professor Snape would expel me from his class for good—after my tranquility potion made everyone dart from the room. Instead, he gave me remedial work. I've never been so surprised."

_Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder_, Harry repeated to himself wonderingly. What a liberating effect it had had, after all. He'd have to tell Hermione after Neville left earshot.

"I'm so hopeless at concocting potions that Professor Snape said there's little use my even sitting that part of the exam, but he recognized that when it comes to cultivating the basic ingredients, I'm not half bad. He told me that if I'm flawless on the theoretical sections of the Potions O.W.L.—the herbals and the zoologicals—I should at least pass." Neville grinned.

Hermione couldn't help but butt in. "To start with, the professor assigned him a list of plants. Before the holiday starts, Neville is to bring him samples meeting certain standards and correctly identify all their uses."

Raising an eyebrow, Ron shook his head. "Can't say I envy you, getting private tutoring from Snape, but failing to earn an O.W.L. in Potions would close a lot of doors. You're a lucky dog."

Neville nodded vigorously. "But I won't be for long if I don't get cracking." With that, he strolled across the room to his favorite nook. Not until he'd sat down did Harry see him draw a scrap of parchment from his robes the size of a short list.

Harry stood, motioned Hermione to his chair and perched on the arm. As soon as they had a quick chat, he'd leave her to Ron. He just hoped his friend could make the right words come out his clenched teeth.

Hermione obliged, sitting daintily and crossing her legs toward Ron.

"Speaking of remedial work," Harry began, "do you remember what Snape said to you in his office?"

Hermione blinked a few times, then brushed a hand over her face. "I remember the grain in the wood, the pores in his nose, the creaks in the rafters. You know those labeled jars behind his desk? They hold pickled spleens from 78 different species of bat. And those twelve white rats? None are missing any toes." She drummed her fingers on her forehead as if to loosen a logjam. "Rauschen, Lautheit and Schreien's _Bavarian Desideratum_. Weltschmerz tonic. You _wouldn't_ use it for a skinned knee, would you?"

Harry saw Ron smile. Her observation proved Hermione's mind was cycling back to normal.

Suddenly, Hermione buried her face in her hands. Crookshanks looked up from washing his front paw, then loped toward her.

Immediately, Ron began patting her back. "Taking points from Gryffindor is unfair, but what else do you expect from Snape?"

"It isn't that," she wailed as Crookshanks consolingly licked her ankle.

Harry leaned down. "Then what are you worried about? Snape was more lenient than I'd thought he'd be. All you have to do is make a presentation—"

"And write a step-by-step essay on how I made the potion," Hermione finished, sounding miserable. "Most of the ingredients I bought in Hogsmeade. A few I picked from the forest myself. One I begged off Hagrid. But mammoth bone . . . that Dobby got for me from Professor Snape's office."

Harry's eyes met Ron's. According to plan, Dobby had added flaked rat skin to the bandersnatch canister to make the level the same. He'd rearranged the candori roots so the jar would look full. Replacing the missing Sphinx piss, well, they'd left that up to him. Harry recalled Hermione slipping an extra item into her robes the night Dobby brought them loot from Snape's cabinet. Now he knew what it had been.

"Hermione," Harry whispered, "how was the mammoth bone stored? Was it powdered or—"

"It was a cross section. Dobby shaved off a tiny sliver. We never thought the professor would look."

Ron sucked in his breath. "They'll sack the poor fellow. Snape will insist."

For an instant, Hermione's face looked indignant. "I objected to the whole undertaking in the first place!"

"Then took advantage of it," Ron said.

Hermione's eyes began to glisten. Around the room, fellow Gryffindors glanced curiously their way. Crookshanks jumped into her lap.

"There has to be more than one memory potion," Harry said quietly. "Say you used one that doesn't require rare ingredients."

"He'll know. No other formula is so strong. I'll just have to come up with a believable way _I_ could have got into his stores."

"Maybe I—" Ron began.

"No," she said quickly. "Snape would never buy that. He saw how flummoxed you were about my condition."

"You remember?" Harry asked.

"Of course. I just didn't realize the significance before." Gently, she set Crookshanks back on the carpet and rose to her feet. "I'm going to have to come up with a really plausible alternative." Lost in thought, Hermione wandered away.

Gazing after her, Ron whispered, "Isn't she cute when she's cooking up a story?"

Harry rolled his eyes. And the Sorting Hat said cunning was a Slytherin virtue.

Ron stood.

_Finally_. Harry smiled. "Going to ask her?"

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Hermione had paused near a circle of Gryffindor girls. Her bout of infinite memory still seemed to be disorienting her.

Ignoring the fact she wasn't alone, Ron strode toward her.

_Go for it!_ Harry cheered silently.

Stopping near the girls, Ron said, "Uh, Angelina. George is going to be too busy to visit Hogwarts before Christmas."

Gryffindor's highest scoring chaser was testing her memory of a parchment unfurled in her lap. Smiling, she looked up. "What can you expect when your boyfriend is a genius? Mr. Zonko sent him an invitation—can you believe it? I'd never let him pass _that_ up. George promised to make it up to me at New Year's."

Angelina never tired of raving about how successful George and Fred's practical joke shop had become. _Everyone_ in Gryffindor knew they were the youngest inventors to ever have an appointment with the grand master of wizard pranks, Mr. Zonko. Harry puckered his forehead. Why would Ron bring it up now?

His friend took a deep breath. "Too bad George can't make it to the Yule Ball. He suggested that maybe, since—just so you won't be lonely—maybe I could be your, uh, escort."

Angelina shot Hermione a quick look. Then she shared a perplexed frown with her best friend and fellow chaser Katie. After an uncomfortable silence, she returned her ebony eyes to Ron. "If your mind is made up . . . ."

"Some people would go to a dance with just anyone. I prefer to stay loyal to Hogwarts."

Hermione no longer looked disoriented. She looked livid. Stiffly, she strode back to Harry and dropped on the seat Ron had vacated. When Angelina's reluctant, "All right," floated across the room, Hermione ground her teeth. "Viktor did ask if we were having another Yule Ball," she muttered. "Ron saw the owl deliver the letter. But he didn't see my reply turning him down. Viktor's a sweet fellow. I couldn't lead him on."

"Hermione, I'm so sorry—" Harry swallowed the rest of his sentence. Ron was strutting back toward them, his face ablaze with both triumph and relief. _The idiot. _

"So, whom are you going with to the Yule Ball?" Ron addressed his casual question to Hermione. He obviously thought he knew the answer.

Harry saw her jaw start to tremble. Raising his chin, he announced, "Me."

* * *

**Hello - **Please review.


	23. Train

_**Chapter 23**_

**TRAIN**

By Thursday evening, the term was over. In his sleep, Harry flew with Cho over craggy peaks jutting above fleecy clouds. Friday, he awoke just as Hedwig was returning from her nocturnal hunt. He dressed quickly to meet Cho.

She awaited him on the porch just as she had that glorious morning when he'd learned she liked him. This time she wore a gray serge cloak lined with white fur that highlighted the ebony of her hair. When she turned, his heart soared to see a single diamond framed in gold sparkling at her throat—his Christmas present to her. When Harry reached out to take her two overstuffed carpetbags, she smiled and handed him one.

They slung their burdens over their shoulders, and set out down the stairs to the frost-covered trail that led around the lake to the Hogwarts Express. Harry couldn't recall just what they talked about, but when at last he stood facing Cho on the empty platform, he felt like several old doors had quietly closed and enticing new ones had opened.

Mist from the lake obscured everything outside the glow of the station's single lamp. Their breath looked like steam, reminding Harry of the rapidly approaching train. When he heard the distant hoot-hoot of the whistle, he felt a bittersweet ache in the pit of his stomach. He had so much to say, but what he was feeling couldn't be put into words.

Cho dipped her head, then gazed up from under her long, feathery lashes. "I'm not some delicate China doll, you know. I won't break."

Without further thought, Harry wrapped his arms around her. Awkwardly, they moved their heads from side to side, like passers-by uncertain of which way to go. Then she closed her lips over his. Lost in joy, he was vaguely aware of the train chugging closer. Its approach only pulled him more urgently into his unexpected, wonderful, heady communion with Cho. He ignored the hissing air brakes and the billowing steam. Only when he realized that the train had stopped beside them did he draw back far enough to focus on Cho's sparkling almond eyes.

Harry could feel a goofy grin spread across his face. His glasses were fogging over. As he wiped them and returned them to his nose, he thought_, That was a kiss I'll remember forever_. Feeling both bashful and exuberant, he grabbed her bags. "Time to board." Humming a Christmas carol, he took a step toward the last carriage's open door.

He froze, gaping up at a maliciously sneering Snape.

"Good morning, Potter. Indulging in a bit of trainspotting, are we?"

Harry was so aghast, it took him a moment to register the additional surprise that instead of wizard robes, the professor was wearing denim and leather.

"Good morning, sir," Cho said quickly. "I'm leaving on holiday. Harry is helping carry my bags."

Snape slowly descended to the platform. "Indeed. And what better time to yield to a little PDA."

When Cho winced, Harry bit his lip. _Peculiarly distracting adieu_? As Snape turned to motion to the elderly baggage handler who had just unloaded three cartons onto a dolly, Harry scanned the professor's strange attire—rawhide boots, jeans too slim for the current fashion, and scarred leather bomber jacket zipped to the neck. His black robes he'd wadded under his arm. For once, his long, unkempt hair went perfectly with his costume. Surely, there was a secret here Harry could use to keep Cho and himself out of trouble.

After the decrepit baggage man wrestled the handcart over, Snape pressed a gold galleon into his hand and waved him away. When the professor faced them, Harry stood at attention.

Snape gazed from one student to the other with an expression Harry couldn't read. "PDA is against the rules. I warned you."

"But I have written permission," Harry said indignantly. "From Professor McGonagall."

"To commit PDA?" A ghost of a smile hovered on Snape's lips. "I think not."

The amusement in his black eyes said he'd realized Harry hadn't a clue what _PDA_ meant. Well, Harry wasn't going to grant him the pleasure of being asked.

"The headmaster has requested that we allow students the choice of detention or lost points. Miss Chang will have to opt for the latter if she doesn't want to miss her train, unless—" he arched an eyebrow at Harry "—she was forced."

"That's it," Harry blurted out. "I forced her."

Cho gasped. "You did _not_."

Snape chuckled under his breath. "Chivalrous by claiming not to be."

A loud whoosh from the train made Harry jump.

"That's right," Snape continued. "If Miss Chang doesn't board now, the Express will depart without her. So we'll leave it at that: forced."

"But that's not—" Cho began.

"Let's hurry," Harry interrupted, swinging her bags into the train, then following them up. Inside, he peered around the dimly lit carriage for a comfortable seat, then stowed the luggage under it. Outside, he could hear Snape's "That will _do_," countered by another exasperated murmur from Cho. When he passed her coming in, she was scowling. "See you next year," she muttered and marched to her seat. Before he could respond, Snape yelled, "Potter. Come down here this instant."

Harry trudged out of the carriage. When he looked over his shoulder to watch it go, Cho's ivory face was pressed against a window, staring at him without expression.

"So," the professor resumed, dragging Harry back to his immediate troubles, "which will it be? Detention or lost points?"

"Detention," Harry mumbled.

"Naturally. Can't let the house down, can we? I could give you detention tonight so that you miss the Yule Ball." He paused, leaving Harry hanging while he shook out his robes, swung them over his shoulders, then smoothed them down to hide his Muggle jeans. "But I'm not heartless."

Harry clamped his teeth to keep from revealing his opinion on that subject.

Looking disappointed at not getting a rise, the professor continued. "Instead, you will report to Mr. Filch Saturday morning after breakfast. In the meantime, you will assist me with these boxes."

Harry eyed them dubiously. Their plain brown cardboard didn't reveal by so much as a bar code what they might contain. As he put his entire weight behind the cart to make it budge, he thought how easily Snape could cast a spell to float the cartons safely to the castle. No, he grumbled as a half hour later he tussled the obstinate dolly into the headmaster's office, the little tyrant had made him sweat the load the whole way.

From the hearty smile on Professor Dumbledore's face as he looked up from the magical photographs he'd spread across his desk, Harry could see that Snape's overnight trip had not been a secret. "So kind of you to help, Harry. I've been looking forward to this shipment for a long time." Several of the auburn-headed witches and wizards in the pictures—not to mention the portraits of previous headmasters up on the walls—seemed to smile their thanks as well. Were the photos relatives? Harry remembered from Tom Riddle's diary that, when younger, Dumbledore had had red hair.

"No problem, sir," he replied, then glanced sidelong at Snape. "Always eager to lend a hand."

In the sunlight streaming through the window behind the headmaster, Harry could see that Snape's ride on the night train must have been taxing. His face appeared somewhat drawn.

"I'm looking at memories," Dumbledore said softly. "Maybe you'd like—"

"Harry has done us a service," Snape cut in. "He mustn't miss his breakfast."

Dumbledore sighed. "Perhaps, you're right, Severus. Someday."

Despite their fatigue, the cold black eyes still managed to threaten Harry into a hasty farewell. Clearly, Snape didn't want anyone present while he and the headmaster discussed the mystery packages.

As Harry escaped down the winding secret staircase, he thought, _So much for Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder_. Any positive effect had definitely worn off.

* * *

That night, Harry waited until the last minute to put on his dress robes. The emerald green outfit Mrs. Weasley had picked out the year before hung a bit shorter but still fit reasonably well. Glancing at the mirror on the dormitory door, he ran his fingers through his unruly black hair, shrugged, and turned the knob. When he ambled down the steps, he found Ron already huddled on one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. His friend smiled glumly.

Unlike last year's second-hand, lace-trimmed monstrosity, Ron wore brand-new robes of a royal blue that went rather well with his carrot-colored hair. "A gift from George and Fred," he explained.

Harry nodded, not revealing that the gold galleons to buy the outfit had really come from his own Triwizard Tournament winnings. Sinking into a chair, he gazed into the fire, trying to ignore his friend fidgeting into increasingly awkward positions of nonchalance. Soon his mind's eye filled with a picture of how lovely Cho had looked at last year's ball. But the vision was marred by his memory of her inscrutable stare at him out the train window.

Hearing a cough, Harry twisted to see Angelina frowning down at Ron. Her athletic body looked elegant in a soft white gown elaborately embroidered in indigo, ruby and amber.

"It's from Eritrea. Say you like it."

"I like it," Ron mumbled.

Angelina rolled her eyes and flounced onto the couch. "Oh, George! The favors I do for you!"

Then Hermione descended the stairs, and Harry heard Ron gulp. Once again their pal had transformed into an astonishingly pretty girl. Gold combs tamed her chestnut hair, pearls gleamed at her ears, and sea green robes flowed around her. Ron's speechless admiration seemed to fill her as she stepped past him and up to Harry. "Ready?"

Harry offered his arm. "You look stunning." Resisting the temptation to peek at Ron, he led Hermione to the portrait hole.

Behind them, Angelina laughed. "You can close your mouth now, sport. And you'd better dance at least seven dances with me, or I'm reporting you to your brother."

* * *

**Please review - **whether a quick comment or a long one. Thanks!


	24. Tables

_**Chapter 24**_

**TABLES**

As Harry and his three fellow Gryffindors descended the stairs to the packed entry hall, he saw that Hogwarts's regulation black had transformed into a sea of color. He caught sight of Parvati in plum and her sister Padma in peach, arm-in-arm with two good-looking boys he recognized as the Ravenclaw beaters. At least the Patil twins would have a better time this year than they'd had with Ron and him last year.

With Hermione still clutching his elbow, Harry led his friends through the throng. He averted his eyes when he saw Wilhelm Avery with Pansy Parkington, though he was pleased at the thought Draco Malfoy might be coming to the Ball alone. When he saw Barden, he suppressed a grin. The husky Hufflepuff was whispering non-stop into his equally tall date's ear, hugging her to keep her from collapsing in giggles. Then Harry did a double take when he recognized Millicent's brown eyes. Nothing else about her looked the same. Her skin was smooth, her features delicate and her teeth even.

Catching his eye, she called out, "Potter! Hear you're stuck here for Christmas."

Harry shrugged and nodded.

"I'll be making the rounds of my aunts in the highlands—kind of a _hag's holiday_. Could you look after my cat? He hates riding on a broom."

At the word _hag_, Ron's lips became an _Oh_. Obviously, he'd just realized that the tall, attractive girl was Millicent.

"No problem," Harry called back. "When you leave, just send Bête Noire on over."

"Thanks!" She winked. "And tell Weasley he can close his mouth now."

Reddening, Ron did an about-face for the door. Angelina had to hurry to catch up. As Harry tagged after them with Hermione, he wondered whether Millicent's change was permanent or just for the dance.

Nearing the entrance to the Great Hall, Harry found Professor McGonagall wearing the same red tartan she'd worn the year before.

At his season's greetings, she retorted, "Don't dawdle. Move along."

Obeying his housemistress, Harry followed his friends into the Yule Ball. The glory of a Hogwarts Christmas no longer astounded him. Instead, Harry found the towering, garlanded, bejeweled Christmas trees—each decorated in a different style—comforting. The stage that would hold the musicians sparkled with icicles and candles.

Above his schoolmates' appreciative murmurs, Harry caught a whirling noise. Looking up, he saw dozens of snowflakes dancing under the star-spangled ceiling. Four broke away and zigzagged toward them. One lacy crystal singled him out. As it hovered in front of him, silver letters appeared in the center: _Harry Potter, follow me_.

The usual four long house tables had given way to twenty-five round ones, decked with poinsettia-red and holly-green tablecloths and sporting lavish ice sculptures. As Harry trailed his magical place card, he kept his eyes open for which group of Gryffindors they'd be joining. Instead, the snowflake led them to a half-dozen students he'd never met before. When he identified two as Slytherins, he wondered if there had been some mistake. Then their magical place cards lit on four empty seats and melted from sight. Dutifully pulling out Hermione's chair, Harry glanced curiously at the two waist-high stools next to it. Who could they be for?

Hagrid waved to him from the High Table, then resumed his fond study of Madame Maxime's blushing face. The Beauxbatons headmistress, resplendent in red and black, had come all the way from France. Clearly, she'd forgiven Hagrid his impolitic question about whether she had giant's blood from her mother's side or her father's. (Harry had always thought the answer to that one a bit self-evident.) Headmaster Dumbledore, his head bare, nodded along with an animated Madame Pomfrey. Next to her, Professor Flitwick stared straight up, apparently counting how many enchanted place cards still swirled overhead. Watching him, Harry recalled his first year at Hogwarts—the winged keys the Charms master had devised to complicate the journey to the philosopher's stone.

_The philosopher's stone_, Harry repeated to himself nostalgically, an adventure of his younger years, when he could still meet a challenge, before he'd lost his edge.

With a sigh, Harry turned to Hermione. As her escort, he was supposed to chat. He saw her staring across the hall.

"Stunning," she murmured, then nudged him.

Following her gaze, Harry caught sight of Professor Daine wearing silver as diaphanous as cobwebs. _Stunning_ was right. As she drifted graciously from table to table, Harry saw that her gown was not just silver but iridescent, displaying a different shade of the rainbow every time she moved.

Reaching the door, Professor Daine stopped and bent low. When she shifted, Harry saw that she was talking to a pair of elves.

"I can't believe it!" Hermione said excitedly. "Winky's changed her clothes!"

Indeed, Winky was wearing a frilly flowered shirt that looked like it was actually clean. The crowd shifted and Harry saw a new pink tutu encircling her waist, sticking out nearly as far as her stubby arms. On one leg a green stocking rose to her thigh, and on the other a white ruffled sock exposed a dimpled knee. A straw hat festooned with ribbons perched on her head.

Next to her, Dobby seemed almost unobtrusive in a striped waistcoat that hung to his ankles, mismatched socks and a child-sized sombrero.

When Professor Daine began walking the pair toward their table, Harry whispered, "Now we know whom the stools are for."

Hermione grinned.

Nearing them, the professor smiled back. "I believe you all know each other."

Dobby grabbed Winky around the waist and, with a mighty swing, hoisted her to her stool. Harry forced himself to keep a straight face as the tiny elf made three attempts before successfully perching himself next to his date. "Great to see you two," he said.

After a minute of exuberant greetings, the elves lost themselves in open-mouthed awe of the marvels around them.

Hermione whispered to the professor, "I never would have believed it. This is all due to you."

"And Severus," Professor Daine whispered while slowly surveying the hall.

"Yeah, well," Harry said doubtfully. Then he looked at the elves again. "I knew you'd worked a change in Winky, but this is nothing short of—"

"—miraculous," Hermione finished.

"When you help someone see she has the right to pursue happiness, you never know how far it will lead."

Harry noticed the pair from Slytherin staring at the elves, their expressions curious but not disdainful. When Dobby smiled at them, the boy offered his hand to shake. Professor Daine drifted over to make introductions, then glided off to another table.

"The professor was in charge of seating," Hermione breathed at Harry's ear. "When she told me all four houses would be mixed at each table, I wasn't looking forward to an evening with Slytherins. But those two don't seem that bad."

* * *

When Ron and Angelina returned panting from the dance floor, Harry and Hermione were engrossed in their first friendly supper chat ever with schoolmates from Slytherin. Harry looked up to see Ron's eyes widening at Winky's attire. Mastering himself, his friend said, "Uh, Winky. You look charming. Are you having fun?"

The elf launched into a rapture of superlatives that lasted until Professor Dumbledore rapped his knuckles on the High Table for everyone's attention. "Once more we come together to celebrate the season of birth and rebirth. A time of peace and good will to all men—"

"And women," Hermione whispered.

"And women." Dumbledore winked as if he'd heard her. "A time when the most powerful spells can be cast by hope, trust and commitment—when the greatest magic of all can be found in compassion, open-mindedness and good fellowship." The headmaster beamed at the assembly over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. "Of such a night are memories made. Let the feasting begin."

The Great Hall burst into applause. In the midst of the clapping, hors d'oeuvres appeared on the golden platters gracing the middle of each table.

"Stuffed mushrooms!" Winky chirped. "We made these! Try them! Try them."

Everyone began helping each other to Winky's mushrooms, as well as generous samplings of roasted chestnuts, Stilton cheese, mince pies, cranberry buns, pickled pumpkin, and Wassail. And new courses kept coming. Soon the combination of scrumptious food and end-of-term good cheer sparked friendly conversations all over. Harry compared the latest racing brooms with Kier Falconbrook, the aristocratic-looking sixth-year Slytherin, while Hermione discussed Arithmancy with his incredibly thin date, Vivian Innis. Harry was just thinking how alike the two houses were after all when something happened that recalled their differences: Snape arrived.

Catching sight of him, Vivian sighed. "Doesn't he look _handsome_ tonight."

Harry shot Ron a warning look, and his friend mimed zipping his lips. Angelina stifled her giggle. Harry tried to meet Hermione's eyes to keep her from staring rudely at their supper companions' housemaster. Then she murmured, "He _does_."

Skeptical, Harry glanced at Snape again. Granted, the professor had washed his hair and his robe looked reasonably appropriate—black, as usual, but with a faint sheen, pulled back at the shoulders by jade and silver studs. Yet the supercilious sneer thinning his lips looked the same.

Suddenly, the last snowflake name card dive-bombed Snape from the enchanted ceiling. Startled, he swatted it, then stared as it smashed on the floor. Harry pretended to cough to keep from snickering as Snape, raising his pointed chin, strode to the High Table and the only seat left—next to Professor Daine.

_Poor thing,_ Harry said to himself as goose gristle, squab bones and olive pits disappeared off his plate, and sugarplums, chocolate truffles, fig pudding, marzipan, and other sweets appeared on the serving platters. Just like Snape to consider himself above enjoying the grandest feast of the year, to make an appearance at the very end. Professor Daine greeted him warmly, but Harry put that down to her generous nature. Snape looked tense as he chose a strawberry tart and offered it to her. He trained his cold eyes on her until she picked up her fork and began to eat.

"Hermione, let's dance," Harry said.

Her gaze slid over to Ron before she smiled and nodded. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

**Please review!** It means a lot.


	25. Dancing

_**Chapter 25**_

**DANCING**

Out on the floor, Harry was glad to find the music an energetic, bouncy number that didn't require handholding. Dancing _at _Hermione was rather fun. Soon everyone from their table joined them—except Dobby and Winky who might have feared getting knocked about. Surveying the crowd, he saw Natalie shimmying with Derek. A few yards away, less lively than the other couples, Neville once again escorted Ginny. She sent Harry a sheepish grin, then expertly sidestepped her partner's misplaced foot.

After four tunes, the tempo slowed, and Hermione stopped dead as a rock. With a strained smile, she said, "I'm beat. Let's sit."

As she led him back, Harry noticed the remaining dancers edging toward each other. Ginny didn't flinch when Neville placed his hands on her waist. Gratefully, Harry retook his chair a comfortable foot from Hermione. Angelina and Ron had already returned, but neither greeted them. Both were staring at the High Table.

Twisting, Harry saw the reason for their astonishment. Professor Snape was pulling Professor Daine to her feet. And she was smiling.

"You don't think—" Harry began.

"I don't think. I see," Ron answered.

Thankfully, no one from the other houses had come back to witness the Gryffindors' amazement as Snape swept an arm around Professor Daine's delicate waist and cupped a hand on her shoulder.

"Isn't that sweet," Winky cooed.

"You mean gross," Ron muttered.

Dobby looked askance at him.

"Oh, come on," Hermione said. "It's just a dance. He's obligated to ask her at least once. And she has to be polite."

"Look's a bit more than _polite_ to me." Angelina shook her head. "Ariel Daine. Who'd have guessed?"

Harry felt a sudden chill. Turning, he saw that the Gryffindor ghost had joined them.

"Well," Nearly Headless Nick said dryly. "If she's Ariel, he must be Caliban."

"Cali-who?" Ron asked, unable to pull his perplexed gaze from the dancing professors.

Nick threw up his hands, causing his head to wobble precariously on his barely attached neck. "Caliban. The bad spirit in _The Tempest_. Shakespeare, my good man. Don't you know _anything_?"

Ron shrugged. "Are you talking Muggle—uh—magically challenged stuff?"

Hermione's appreciative smile at Ron's use of the respectful term dissolved in a gasp as Nick's head began to spin. When it had gone as far as it could on his half-inch of neck, it began spinning back the other way. Grimacing, Harry stuck out his hand. Nick had just enough substance for human touch to slow him.

"Thank you," Nick said when once again his head faced front. Then he resumed his stern look. "I've told Albus the Hogwarts curriculum is too narrow. Oh, wherefore the universal gentleman of years gone by?"

"_I_ read Shakespeare's plays," Hermione offered. "All of them. When I was ten."

"Of course." Nick sighed. "You would have."

Vigorously rubbing his still frozen hand, Harry dredged up a memory of sitting in a corner of the Dursley's living room while Aunt Petunia exposed the family to _Culture_ via the BBC. "I saw half of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ once."

Nick looked outraged. "Half! Half!"

"My aunt decided Titania's gown was too revealing. She turned the telly off."

"Titania!" Winky squealed. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was lady-in-waiting to Queen Titania."

"And my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather knew Ariel," Dobby added. "But she couldn't have been as wonderful as _our_ Professor Ariel."

"She's the kindest—" Winky gushed.

"The most charming, the most sensitive—" Dobby continued.

"The most unique sorceress in the world. Such a match for Professor Severus! He's the most sagacious—"

"The most gifted, the most inspired sorcerer. "

Leaning their heads together in a bliss of elfin appreciation, the pair finished in unison, "They're the most _perfect_ couple ever."

Ron put a hand to his mouth. "I think I'm going to be ill."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Oh, surely they're not a _couple._"

Angelina laughed. "You've been a ghost too long, my friend. Can't you see how she's glowing at him?"

Out on the dance floor, Professor Daine pressed so close to Professor Snape that his black robes swirled around her iridescent ones.

"I see it and I can't believe it," Ron muttered.

Watching the pair twirl effortlessly around the packed dance floor, Harry realized they were floating an inch above it. Stripped of his sneer, Professor Snape gazed down into Professor Daine's face with the unguarded look Harry had seen in the wizard photo. Her lips parted, as if being near Snape left her breathless.

The same embarrassment washed over Harry that had made him slam his album shut. "Come on, guys. Let's go outside. The fireworks should be starting any minute. They say Dedalus Diggle's shooting stars aren't to be missed." He glanced at Hermione. "You game?"

Hermione put her mouth to Angelina's ear and whispered, "_Please_ bring Ron before his eyes pop out of his head."

Angelina chuckled and poked a playful fist at Ron's cheek. "Come along, sport, or I'm going to tell George you've become a peeping Tom."

* * *

The courtyard outside was already teeming. Nick sailed up for a better view. "A stage is set up, all strung with holly. Some of the staff are there—Argus, Minerva, Rubeus. Maxime is with him. And there's Dedalus. Albus better make haste. Dedalus likes to begin with a bang." The ghost circled, searching. "Ah, there he is! Coming up behind you."

"Merry Christmas!" the headmaster called out.

Harry turned. "Seasons greetings!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

Everyone within hearing distance joined in, shaking hands and patting backs all around. Harry moved aside so the headmaster and the three staff members accompanying him could reach the stage.

When Madame Pomfrey passed, she broke into a smile. "Harry Potter! Just the boy I wanted to see. Did you know that your mother used to work in the hospital?"

"Yes. I'd heard that." He stepped closer to catch her words above the buzzing mob.

"When I first saw her name, it didn't connect, but it nagged the back of my mind. Checking student records, I saw it: _Potter, Harry. Mother: Lily Evans_."

Harry hunched his shoulders, feeling his usual mixture of longing and regret at hearing his mother's name.

Madame Pomfrey gave his cheek a comforting tweak. "I found something of hers—lost behind a cabinet. I think you'll like it. I'm leaving for a few days, but if you come by after breakfast tomorrow, I can give it to you."

Harry's heart leapt. _Something of my mother's!_ Then his shoulders sagged. "Tomorrow morning, I can't. I'm—I'm busy."

"Too bad." Madame Pomfrey cocked her head. "When I return, then. It'll be like a Christmas present from her." She waved cheerily and bustled to catch up with Dumbledore.

"Harry!" Hermione looked baffled. "What could you possibly have to do tomorrow that's more important than getting hold of something of your mother's?"

Harry sighed. "Besides saying good-bye to you, Ron, and everyone? Detention."

"Detention!" exclaimed Ron, butting in. "What in the world did you do to earn _that_ on our first day of freedom?"

Harry moistened his lips, determined to look nonchalant—as if he knew exactly what rule he'd broken. "Oh, just PDA."

Ron gaped. "PDA?" Then he roared. "PDA! You poor so-and-so. Who caught you?"

Harry ground his teeth. Then he mumbled, "Snape."

"S-s-s-nape!" Ron convulsed as if his sides would split. "That's pri-i-iceless."

People around them turned to gawk. Glaring at his friend, Harry decided PDA must mean _Positively Deranged Attitude_. Alongside him, Dobby and Winky twittered uncontrollably, though Harry thought they looked as confused as he was. Drawn by her brother's hysterics, Ginny led Neville through the partygoers toward them. When Ron stuttered, "P-D-A-A-A!" Neville looked embarrassed, and Ginny's smile dropped clean from her face. She clutched her escort's elbow and urged him toward the stage.

Glancing sidelong at Hermione, Harry saw her suck in her cheeks as if to keep from cracking up, too. Unable to stand it, he leaned close. "End my misery. What's PDA?"

A squeak escaped Hermione's clamped lips. Then she mastered herself and put her mouth to his ear. "_Public Display of Affection_. Honestly, it's in the school handbook."

Harry hung his head. He'd been nicked for kissing Cho. Why hadn't he guessed? One of the finest moments of his life, and all he'd done was amuse his friends—and Snape. _If we'd sneaked into a closet, that wouldn't have been public._

As if things weren't embarrassing enough, a lazy, affected voice spoke up behind him. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Potter and his covey of cackling clowns."

"Draco," Hermione breathed. "Ignore him."

* * *

**Author's note: **If you've never reviewed and you've read this far, isn't it time to leave a comment? Please?


	26. Laurels

_**Chapter 26**_

**LAURELS**

But ignoring Draco was easier said than done. "Ooo," he cooed. "And the itty-bitty ones are all decked out in Weasley's castoffs."

Harry pivoted on the flagstones of the courtyard. Glancing down, he saw Dobby bowing his head. A sick feeling swept over him. The arrogant sleaze was Dobby's former master's son.

"What dustbin did you rummage for those rags?" Malfoy drawled.

Winky wrung her hands, her saucer eyes swimming. Dobby maintained his humble stance.

_Oh, no_, Harry groaned. _Any minute now, he's going to start banging his head on the flagstones._

Instead, the elf answered calmly, "These clothes cost three galleons in Hogsmeade. Dobby is earning money now—"

"—thanks to your father's generosity," Harry finished, stepping up beside his little friend. When Ron flanked Winky, Crabbe and Goyle took up positions on either side of Malfoy.

Harry gritted his teeth. He knew Malfoy wouldn't do more than toss insults at the Yule Ball. What his muscle-bound friends might risk wasn't so certain.

Then a fourth Slytherin sauntered up behind Malfoy—their aristocratic supper companion, Kier. "Harry is so right. What your father did was truly inspiring. My own father quite admired it—offered socks to all the elves in our house, too."

Reluctantly, Malfoy turned. Harry saw Kier favor his fellow Slytherin with a bland smile that dared him to challenge the unwelcome compliment he'd just received.

At last, Malfoy muttered, "Thank you."

Throwing an arm around Malfoy's shoulders, Kier nodded pleasantly at Harry and his friends. "It was marvelous making everyone's acquaintance." He made a point of bending low to acknowledge Dobby and Winky. Then he turned, shepherding Malfoy into the throng. Confused, Crabbe and Goyle trailed after them.

Harry shot Ron a dazed smile. "Slytherin cunning in action.

"So something good _can_ come out of that house," Angelina said.

"Not just good," Winky trilled as tears streamed down her cheeks, "but wise and diplomatic and gracious and noble."

Ron rolled his eyes.

At Harry's side, so softly that only he could hear it, Dobby murmured, "Too bad Professor Severus wasn't his father. When he was a boy, Master Draco tried to give Dobby a sock."

Before Harry could register this surprise, Nick coughed for their attention. Looking up, he saw the ghost's head flop forward in a nod. "Yes, indeed. Very courtly." Then he sniffed. "If Snape had witnessed it, he might have learned something."

Just then the first of the fireworks shot into the sky, erupting in a fountain of stars. And in that instance of daytime brilliance, Harry saw why Snape had not witnessed the confrontation between Gryffindor and Slytherin. He was too absorbed in Ariel Daine.

_Public display of affection_ was inadequate to describe them. On the far side of the patio, the two embraced beneath a birch tree, so entwined, they looked like one figure. When the next rocket lit the night, the couple had vanished, but their image stayed burned in Harry's mind. Nothing from the parade of fiery spectacles—sparkling sprites, shimmering angels, exploding snowmen—could dim the memory. Had his mother ever hugged Snape that way? _No, never_.

When the last flickering reindeer leapt over the audience, then evaporated with a pop, Madame Pomfrey's voice rang out, inviting everyone's indulgence.

"They're proclaiming Dumbledore Father Christmas," Hermione whispered, reducing Pomfrey's flowery speech to its basics. "It's a surprise. Professor Daine told me."

Snatching Harry's hand, Hermione dragged him forward. He dispensed _excuse me's_ right and left until they reached the foot of the stage. Nervously gripping Ginny's hand, Neville twisted to smile at them. Above them, the staff, radiant in their multicolored dress robes, ranged around the headmaster. Harry could have sworn Dumbledore's wrinkled cheeks glowed pink above his snowy beard. Ariel Daine looked bubbly, like she'd had too much to drink. Snape's eyes appeared heavy-lidded, as if he were drugged. Between them, Filch glanced suspiciously from one to the other. Then he crammed his fingers down the neck of his antiquated tailcoat and scratched.

When her well of adulation finally ran dry, Madame Pomfrey turned and scanned the row of professors. "Professor Sprout—where is she?"

"Called away," Snape said, breaking ranks to stride to a pedestal at the side. Picking up a red cap festooned with laurel leaves, silver bells and golden stars, he added, "She asked me to do the honors." Stiffly, he carried the jingling crown to the Headmaster.

"Because you give so much to us every day of your life, on this special occasion we crown you Father Christmas." Snape sounded stilted. Evidently, praise was a foreign language to him. He hesitated, apparently at a loss for what more to say. Then, lifting the Santa cap high above the headmaster's head, he murmured, "You're a father to us all."

When Snape placed the laurel-trimmed band over the snowy, white hair, everyone raised a resounding cheer. But on the second _hip, hip, hooray_, Dumbledore's smile contorted. He choked out a tortured moan. The students' voices faltered, then cut short.

Ginny shattered the stunned silence with a shriek: "It's the hat!"

Dumbledore fell to his knees, his chest wracked by spasms, his hands clenching the sides of the cap. He seemed helpless to let go. Harry heaved himself onto the stage and jumped up to yank it off.

"No!" Neville cried. "That's shock laurel! Don't touch it!"

Harry paused. Dumbledore gasped. Without further thought, Harry seized the leaf-studded brim.

A jolt like lightning swept through him, forcing out a scream. His muscles contracted unbearably tight. As he shuddered in agony, the world spun around him.

"Neville, do something!" Ginny screeched.

While his consciousness wavered in and out, Harry had a nebulous impression of Neville Longbottom clambering up and scrambling forward to croon gibberish at the red cap. Harry felt his taut muscles liquefy. As his eyeballs rolled upward under fluttering lids, he saw Dumbledore's death mask rictus relax as well.

Reaching out, Neville removed the cap.

Harry collapsed on the stage. Squares of black appeared at the edges of his vision, slowly filling in toward the center. Faintly, he heard someone say, "Well-done, Longbottom. You've done your parents proud."

Then Harry's darkness became complete.

* * *

Later—Harry couldn't tell how much later—he awoke to pinches, jabs and slaps. As he forced his eyes open and waited to regain his sight, he heard his friends murmuring: "He's coming around." "But he's weak." "Let's take him to the hospital."

When he finally focused, it was on a dispassionate, narrow face hanging upside down above him. "Potter, are you ill?"

Snape's offhand tone brought back everything—his headstrong foolishness in grabbing the cap, his relief that Neville had known how to save the day, and his embarrassment that he hadn't. Quickly, Harry sat up, muttering, "I'm fine, I'm fine."

Hermione tried to push him back down. "Take it easy. Neville told us those leaves pack quite a voltage."

_Neville_. "I'm _fine_. Really."

"He's fine, Miss Granger," Snape repeated sardonically. "_Really_."

Harry struggled to his feet, Ron and Angelina helping him. He could feel Winky and Dobby steadying his knees.

Behind him, Snape snorted. "So, you're well—well enough to keep your appointment with Mr. Filch after breakfast. You may return to the party."

Instead, Harry excused himself from his friends' ministrations—and Professor Daine's licorice wands—to stumble off to bed. An hour later, he remained sleepless, staring into the darkness, wondering how he'd ever live down this fiasco of a night.

Dumbledore saving him from the fire-breathing statue—that he could accept. After all, he was possibly the greatest wizard of modern times. And giving Cho the credit for protecting him from the griffin had made him feel magnanimous. But being rescued by I-can't-even-find-my-wand-without-my-toad-helping-me Neville Longbottom? That was mortifying.

Yet worse was the realization of what a conceited fool he'd been, assuming all these weeks that the mysterious attacks had been directed against him. The belligerent statue, the enraged griffin, the electrocuting laurel—their target had been someone much more important than little Harry Potter. The only way he could redeem his self-respect now was to uncover their source. _Who's trying to kill Headmaster Dumbledore?_

* * *

**Okay, now**... please leave a comment. One word will do.


	27. Talking

_**Chapter 27**_

**TALKING**

Scrubbing grime, moss and bird droppings from the head of the non-transfigured dragon Saturday morning, Harry wondered whether Snape had specifically requested this particular detention. What else could have made his shame more public and more complete? A survey of the porch, walkways, and patios below revealed more families than he'd ever seen personally picking up their children for winter break. And all of them seemed to be having a high time reminiscing about their school days, pointing out the landmarks they remembered, and asking if it was really the famous Harry Potter slogging away atop the ancient statue.

His mouth twisted wryly. This last observation was not just chagrined imagination. Ron's Fourier Analytical Earhorn—jammed in his right ear—left him no doubts about what everyone was saying. His only consolation for being placed by Snape on such degrading display was the unique opportunity it gave him to spy.

Hundreds of yards away, beside some rose bushes cut back to gnarled stumps for the winter, Lucius Malfoy held court before three elegantly robed men—one of them, Willimar Avery. Despite his distance, Harry could hear the old Death Eater as clearly as if he faced him. "Potter has had his day. He no longer figures into our equations."

Harry assumed Malfoy, Jr. was hanging on his father's words until he turned the earhorn and caught Draco whispering to his mother, "I don't want to stay here over Christmas. I want to spend the holidays with you. You look fine. Really you do."

Narcissa Malfoy's beautiful face seemed slightly off-center. She wrinkled her nose, as if blocking an unpleasant odor. "It's necessary. I'll try to explain."

Twisting, Harry passed over this mother-son exchange, then Katie with her parents, Seamus with his aunts, and Barden with his horde of siblings until the earhorn picked up Colin Creavy on the opposite side of the gardens.

Eagerly, his former admirer posed his kid brother next to Neville. "Just one more photo! In front of the laurel bush. It looks rather like shock laurel, doesn't it? Terrifying! Spine tingling!" He pointed his wizard camera. "Smile!"

Last night's hero looked abashed at the attention. After he recovered from the blinding flash, he murmured. "Could you take one for me to keep? I'd like to bring it with me when I visit my father and mother."

Harry blew out his breath. He'd be a louse to begrudge his fellow Gryffindor that.

On the far side of the laurel, Professor Sprout held forth to Neville's grandmother. "I was away tending the Confessing Conifer. The old tree was in a crisis—besieged by weevils and termites. If my best pupil hadn't been at the ball, that hazardous hat might have killed both the headmaster and Harry Potter. The professors realized it was shock laurel. Only Neville knew the precise chant to disarm it."

Neville's wizened grandmother smiled proudly from the depths of her bulky cape. "He's quiet and unassuming, but he has the knack."

_Unlike me_. Harry plunged his brush back into the cleaning potion, then shuddered. The chill morning had lowered the liquid's temperature to near freezing_. At least it has some effect on dirt_, he thought.

Speaking of dirt, Harry spied Wilhelm swaggering out of the woods. The earhorn picked up his formal salutations to his father and the other men. Evidently, he'd also be spending Christmas at Hogwarts. Then Avery, Jr. sauntered over to Malfoy, Jr. "Check out Weasley. He used to be the hero's sidekick. Now he's the janitor's sidekick."

Malfoy was too preoccupied with scrutinizing his mother to do more than nod.

Rankled, Harry aimed the earhorn to the other side of the dragon and the most humiliating conversation of all. As a surprise, the Weasleys had shown up with the Grangers—answering the question of who had taken Hermione's Muggle mum to Diagon Alley to buy a Little Nemo Hammock. During the last few months, the four parents had grown chummy. Today they were commiserating over poor Harry Potter.

"Surely, Harry can take a little break," Mr. Weasley said, repeatedly clicking something in his left hand. "At least long enough to see this amazing gizmo your dad gave me."

Hermione's thick brown hair, released from its fancy combs, billowed as she shook her head. "If he stops without permission, his detention will be doubled."

Mrs. Weasley tsked, clasping her knitted maroon cloak against the nippy air. "I don't see why he should be punished—just because he bungled his attempt to disable the shock laurel. They expect too much of the poor child."

Ron made a face "That's _not_ why he got detention. He got it for—"

Ginny poked him.

"—something else altogether."

"Too bad," Mrs. Granger said, looking stylish but out-of-place in a topaz ski jacket. "I'd been looking forward to getting to know both of my daughter's best friends."

A cold voice from beneath Harry made him jump.

"Potter. No slacking."

Hastily, Harry resumed scouring grit off the dragon's marble scales. Out the corner of his eye, he watched Snape stalk around the statue. No surprise, he headed toward the Malfoys—until Mr. Weasley sang out his name.

Snape halted, then jerked his head toward the summons. After a pause, he started toward it.

"That's the Potions master," Hermione offered in an aside to her parents. "I've told you about him. He's one of my best professors."

Unlike Harry, Snape didn't appear equipped to hear whispers at a dozen yards. He approached the party with a guarded expression, as if certain the Gryffindors and their Muggle friends intended him no respect.

Mr. Weasley beamed at him, still clicking the Grangers' mysterious present. "The boys apologize they couldn't come—spending the weekend at Mr. Zonko's, of all places. But they insisted I tell you how grateful they are. They owe it all to you."

"They?" Snape's black eyes narrowed. "Who?"

Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Fred and George. If you hadn't been such a taskmaster, they never would have had the know-how to invent Ten Ton Toffee, Zapping Gumballs, Chortling Chocolate or any of it. They say they'll never forget you."

"The twins." Snape exhaled slowly. "They were . . . unforgettable, too."

Hermione's mother nodded warmly. "Our daughter also speaks highly of you."

Snape gazed at her along the side of his very long nose. "Does she."

Each time Snape opened his mouth, Harry had the distinct impression the Grangers were sneaking peeks at his crooked, off-white teeth. He recalled they were dentists.

"Yes," Hermione's father put in, averting his eyes. "She talks about you a lot."

Harry noticed Ron furtively drawing Hermione away—no doubt to avoid having to compliment Snape as well. Out of the adults' earshot but not Harry's, Ron took Hermione to task. "One of your _best_ professors? Trying to kiss up?"

Harry saw Hermione compress her lips before launching into a soft retort. "I didn't say friendliest, pleasantest, funniest, or cutest, did I? But he _is_ one of our best. Do you think your brothers could have invented anything Mr. Zonko would be eager to market if they hadn't been schooled by Professor Snape? And if we hadn't been sitting through his classes for five years, would we have had the discipline to pull off Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder? Whom _should_ I admire? Gilderoy Lockhart?"

At mention of the most incompetent teacher they'd ever had, Ron sniggered. "My Temporal Transfiguration essay—you've just given me an inspiration."

Sudden movement grabbed Harry's attention. He cut back to the grownups. Mr. Weasley was heartily shaking his head, his eyes dancing with the thrill of controversy. "Potions can't do everything. Far from it. Oh, they can uncover secrets a person would rather keep hidden."

Hermione's mother cocked her head. "Even us non-magicians can do that. When I put people under for dental work, you'd be amazed at what they babble out. I have to stick my hand in the patient's mouth just to keep from being embarrassed."

"Score!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed, spreading his gangling arms. "Potions can be more precise—make people say quite specific things. But they can't fundamentally change what a person thinks, believes, or feels. None of them can."

Harry saw one side of Snape's mouth curl in a superior smile. "I disagree."

Mr. Weasley grinned—as if pleased at drawing the professor out.

"Potions can make the timid brave or the brave cower," Snape continued in his silky, soft voice. "They can wipe the memory clean or—" he glanced at Hermione "—enhance it to forget nothing. Potions can produce eloquence or reticence. They can bring people to hatred . . . or even love."

Still clicking, Mr. Weasley waved a hand in the air. "Yes, yes—but not _real_ love. Everyone knows that. Take the Maia Draft. Can it create maternal love? Oh, it can make a woman spout loving platitudes, but children know the difference. _Real_ maternal love is the same whether you're magical or not."

Mrs. Weasley fondly ruffled Ginny's hair. Harry saw Snape look aside.

"And romantic love, well . . . ." Mr. Weasley just lifted his shoulders.

"Of course," Snape agreed quietly. "Real love can't be won by a potion." With that comment, he nodded his farewells, folded his arms inside his robes and walked off.

When Snape was distant, Hermione's dad leaned toward her mum and whispered, "Wouldn't our dental hygienist love to get _him_ into the chair for a cleaning. Do you suppose Hogwarts uses the National Health Service?"

"Probably not," her mum answered, "but I think we could do a freebie."

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione hook her foot playfully around Ron's ankle. His friend's cheeks reddened, and he bumped her with his hip. Harry didn't need to aim the earhorn at them to know their teasing was leading them _dangerously close to committing PDA_. At breakfast Angelina had congratulated him on his brilliant idea—leaving the Yule Ball early. _I nearly had to kick Ron, but I finally got him to ask Hermione to dance. When I left the party, they didn't even notice_.

Allowing his friends privacy, Harry again trained the earhorn on Snape as he stalked across the grounds. Centering his suspicions on the Potions master was counterproductive, he told himself. Hadn't Snape's Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder confession shown he was unlikely to do anything that supported Voldemort? But Harry couldn't forget Snape's look of unease as he placed the treacherous crown on the headmaster's head. Had it been awkwardness—or guilt? Could he have his own reasons for getting rid of Dumbledore? As the professor approached the Malfoys, Harry felt certain that the most revealing chat of the morning was about to take place.

* * *

**Please review!** Thanks.


	28. Listening

_**Chapter 28**_

**LISTENING**

Harry continued to scrub the dragon, but his ear was on the older Slytherins. Malfoy, Sr. returned Snape's greeting loftily, then cast a jaundiced glance at the Weasleys and Grangers. "What disgrace will Dumbledore sanction next? It's offensive enough having our pureblood children schooled with mudbloods, but to allow their Muggle relatives the run of the grounds—it's appalling."

Snape turned his back, and Harry couldn't hear his reply—but Avery laughed and said, "Not for long."

Bridling his indignation, Harry focused more intently on Avery, in time to pick up—"The beast wasn't as fierce as we'd hoped."

Snape shifted slightly, his eyes on Wilhelm chatting up Mrs. Malfoy while Draco pouted. "Not quite, but your effort was still appreciated."

Harry's jaw dropped. Then he clenched it. Avery was apologizing that the griffin hadn't been fierce enough to kill Dumbledore. What else could he possibly mean? Malfoy's efforts to replace Hogwarts's headmaster with its Potions master by petitioning the Ministry had failed, so Snape had devised a more direct scheme—killing Dumbledore. That Voldemort would also benefit was irrelevant.

Harry slammed his scrubbing brush into the bucket, spraying his robes with icy cleaning potion. He gripped the statue's horn to steady his surge of anger. If he could have transfigured the marble beast into a real dragon—biting jaws and snatching claws—he'd have ridden it straight at the Death Eaters and trampled them into the mud.

_How dare that monster say he owed loyalty to Lily_? His mother's name in that brute's mouth had been nothing short of an abomination.

An unexpected chortle wrenched Harry's gaze to the base of the statue. Millicent was grinning at him—her teeth again jagged, her nose bulbous, her forehead craggy and her skin warty. "I hope whatever you did was worth freezing your bum off up there."

Harry swallowed hard, trying to control his seething emotions. "Yes, it was." _Doubly so_, he added to himself, since it had placed him in a position to unravel the plot against Dumbledore.

Before Harry could say anything else, Millicent began shinning her dumpy body up the dragon's spine as nimbly as a chimp. He gnawed his lip. Under normal circumstances, he'd have welcomed the distraction. Now he needed to concentrate on the conspirators.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on Bête Noire," Millicent said after she'd roosted behind him. "I was wondering if you could also check on the hydra while I'm gone."

"The hydra?" Harry repeated vaguely, his eyes once more on the villains. "Certainly."

"My cousin's supposed to tend the four lads, but I don't trust him."

Puzzled, Harry faced her. "Your cousin?"

Millicent tilted her head toward Malfoy's group. "Draco."

"Your _cousin_?"

"The family resemblance surprises you?" She grinned toothily.

"There's none at all," Harry said quickly. "You're much nicer."

Millicent threw back her misshapen hag's head and cackled. "Narcissa, his mother—she's my aunt." She peered obliquely across the gardens. "And from the looks of her, Uncle Lucius is about to send her for a very long stint at Wizard's Rest Sanitarium."

Following her gaze, Harry saw Mrs. Malfoy pucker her upper lip as if she were about to retch.

Millicent sucked air through her teeth. "It's nice to put on a pretty face for a party, but keeping it up all the time is exhausting. Like being stuffed into a girdle, one's body just aches to let it all hang out."

"Is that why she does that?" Harry asked softly. "Screw up her nose like the whole world smells rotten?"

Millicent nodded. "Dear Uncle Lucius married her for her exceptional second sight—then prevents her from using it. The demands he makes! It takes all her energy just to keep up appearances."

Harry swiveled to stare at the object of their discussion. When he did, he saw Barden shepherding his relatives up the path toward them.

"If Uncle really loved her," Millicent continued quietly, "he'd be more concerned about her inner beauty. But if Auntie were to ever show her true face in public, he'd have an apoplectic fit."

Nearing them, Barden called out, "Hallo, up there. Anything going on I should complain about?"

"Never!" Millicent hopped off the side of the statue. Seeing how gracefully she glided down, Harry felt certain Cho had coached her in Wudang Shen. The look on Barden's face as she landed beside him made clear his eyes were on the lady Millicent was inside.

Before the Grandstaffs could settle in for a chat, Harry held up his scrub brush. "If I don't get cracking, I'll be here till midnight."

As Barden and his family switched to pleasant farewells the littlest sister piped up. "Can we go see Neville Longbottom now? Do you think he'd give me his autograph?"

"Just a minute." Millicent held up a finger to Harry. "I almost forgot. I got you an early Christmas present—my thanks for looking after the beasts. Bête Noire will bring it by when he comes tonight."

"You didn't have to," Harry said, feeling bad he hadn't bought one for her.

Millicent shrugged. "Just a little something I had lying around. Don't throw out the wrapping. It gives instructions on how to use it."

As the Grandstaffs and Millicent rambled off to meet Hogwarts's newest celebrity, Harry heard Barden's little sister ask, "Who's that boy up on the dragon?"

He grimaced. _Never mind_. Resolutely, he once again tuned in Malfoy and his gang.

"Take your father and his friends to see the hydra," Narcissa Malfoy was saying to Draco. "I'm afraid I'm too fatigued for the walk."

"Wilhelm can do it. I want to—"

"Run along, now." Mrs. Malfoy twitched her nose. "Severus will keep me company."

Without a backward glance at his wife, Lucius Malfoy said, "Yes, Willimar. Let's see this famous beast of yours."

Sullenly, Draco tagged after the men down the path.

When they were out of view, Mrs. Malfoy beckoned Snape closer.

He stayed motionless, studying her. "You have something to say to me, Madame?"

"I—I do." She steepled her hands under her nose, apparently unsettled by his impassive tone. "Draco didn't want to hear this, but I have to tell someone."

Snape arched an eyebrow as if to say, _I'm listening_.

Mrs. Malfoy lowered her voice. "Lucius tries to keep Draco in line, but my son is still headstrong. Now he's reaching a turning point. Late last night, I cast the bones. I saw that these two weeks will be critical—"

Snape raised a hand. "Enough. You know my feelings on prognostication."

Mrs. Malfoy's upper lip quivered violently. She jammed her fingertips against it. "No prophecies, then. Just a caution. Draco is at a crossroads. As his mother, I know that. A moment of decision is approaching. Its appearance will be sudden, but it will set the course for the rest of his life." A tremor passed over her face. "I would appreciate if you would . . . watch out for him."

Snape inclined his head mockingly. "Madame, don't I always?"

She swung away.

He ignored her, his black eyes roving indolently over the grounds. Then they focused on something that transformed their indifference into another expression altogether. His farewells came out in a rush. "You must excuse me. A professor's duties. But don't trouble yourself, Madame. I've taken your words to heart. Draco will be looked after." Without waiting for her reply, he set off.

A paroxysm overwhelmed Mrs. Malfoy. She threw her violet alpaca hood over her head and clutched it closed—but not before Harry caught a glimpse of her elegant features contorting. Whirling blindly, she stumbled toward a wrought iron bench.

Harry whipped his attention back to Snape. When he did, he saw what was making the Potions master quicken his pace, even as he folded his arms protectively in front of himself. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was tripping up the path from the lake, her blonde hair wispy in the breeze, her feet as light as if she were dancing.

Disconcerted, Harry dove his scrub brush into his pail. Snape was evil. Once and for all, he'd proven it. Hadn't he colluded with his Death Eater friends to assassinate Dumbledore wtih a fierce griffin? And his promise to Draco's mother to mentor her son along his dad's depraved path was just the bizarre coda to his deceitfulness.

But when Snape faced Ariel Daine—his thin lips pressed together, his dark eyes watchful, his right hand fidgeting with his left sleeve—he seemed more wary than wicked.

"How do you feel this morning?" he asked as softly as a breath.

"The same." Professor Daine's face shone as she gazed up at him. "Giddy. Exultant. Wonderful. You've put your spell on me, all right."

Before Harry could be privy to another syllable, he popped the Fourier Analytical Earhorn out of his ear and shoved it in his pocket. Hunkering down, he began avidly washing the dragon's shoulders. He didn't stop working until the sun was high overhead and a friendly voice asked, "Mind if I sit in?"

Startled, Harry almost lost his balance. Professor Dumbledore was levitating in midair next to him, a scouring pad scrunched in his hand.

"No," Harry said hurriedly. "Please. Let me—"

"Hog all the laurels for yourself?" Humming a Christmas carol, Dumbledore began rubbing a particularly troublesome stain on the dragon's jowls.

The headmaster looked so buoyant that speculations of dastardly intrigue seemed silly fantasies. Harry knew he had a duty to voice his misgivings, but not here, out in the open. He had to talk to Dumbledore privately.

When he stole a glance, the old man smiled and tipped his head toward the last large party socializing in the patchy garden. The Weasleys and the Grangers had gathered around Neville and his grandmother. Ginny stood beside her Yule Ball date, smiling bemusedly. "Now there's a sight to warm the heart."

Harry felt a grin quirk his lips. "Yes, it is."

They continued working, Dumbledore whistling and Harry reflecting. _Laurels_. They were nice. They let one know one was doing a proper job. But they weren't necessary. As he rested on that conclusion, he observed the Weasleys and Grangers strolling up the wide, granite steps.

"Albus!" Arthur Weasley waggled his right hand. "You just have to see this astounding gadget Hermione's dad gave me."

Extending a finger, Dumbledore guided the slender red object from Mr. Weasley's palm to his own.

"Kind of a mechanical quill," Mr. Weasley explained, "but much, much better. Its nib never breaks, and you never need to dip it in an inkwell. It has its own supply! Isn't that remarkable? It's called a _ballpoint pen_."

Harry bit back a smirk. He could see that all three Grangers looked sheepish.

As delighted as Mr. Weasley, Professor Dumbledore held the cheap plastic pen so Harry could admire it, too. _Let the Grungers put a smile on your face_, read a message down the side. _Dental care for all ages_.

"A printer's error," Hermione's father said self-consciously. "We were throwing out the lot, but Arthur—"

"They gave me the entire box! Isn't that fantastic?" Grandly, Mr. Weasley began pulling _Grunger_ pens from his expansive robes to hand to everyone.

"We'll buy everybody really _nice_ pens for Christmas," Hermione's mother put in weakly.

While Harry's departing friends gushed out _Season's Greetings_ with promises to write, Dumbledore tried a few experimental clicks. An hour later, he was polishing the dragon's belly with one hand and happily clicking with the other. Every time Harry heard it, he grinned. Soon the brisk air and bright sun had him whistling, too. Thoughts of plots receded into the distance. Just when his own progress down the dragon's bumpy spine was amazing him, the headmaster lowered his scouring pad and peered over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. "A praiseworthy effort. And high time we broke for lunch. I'd like to share it with you in my office. I have an inkling you have something you wish to tell me."

Before Harry could express his surprise and relief at Dumbledore's perceptiveness, he heard Snape's self-important cough. Glancing down, Harry saw the Potions master was once again by himself.

"Potter's story can wait," Snape said coolly. "I need to speak with you now."

* * *

**Hi!** Please leave a comment to tell me how this is going. Thanks.


	29. Absences

_**Chapter 29**_

**ABSENCES**

Lunch had already been cleared from the Great Hall, but the house elves piled a tray full of Yule Ball leftovers for Harry. He ate them by himself at the Gryffindor table, thinking how lonely the next two weeks would be. Dumbledore had been wrong if he'd thought Harry needed to stay at Hogwarts for his safety. It was the headmaster who required protection. _Snape won't try anything when he knows I can place him with Dumbledore_, Harry told himself reassuringly. Still, he rushed through his food in the hopes that the headmaster would rejoin him outside on the dragon.

No such luck. As the winter sun dipped behind the towering pines of the Enchanted Forest and Harry polished the last smudge from the statue's left big toe, he began to worry in earnest. Why had he let Snape drag Dumbledore away? Why hadn't he blurted out the incriminating statements he'd heard?

By the time Harry arrived at Filch's office to return his bucket and scrub brush, his stomach felt twisted in a knot. At first, his repeated knocks went unanswered. Just when he'd decided to dump the cleaning equipment in the corridor so he could go hunt for Dumbledore, the caretaker inched his door open. Harry recalled that in the morning, Filch had thrust the pail through just such a crack. Now he yanked it back the same way.

"Don't want boys tracking their filth on my floor," he grumbled.

"Who could blame you?" Harry replied sweetly. After the caretaker slammed his door shut, he muttered, "And say _hello_ to your cockroaches for me."

At supper, Professor McGonagall answered Harry's anxious question with, "Albus is dining in his office. I just sent Poppy Pomfrey's owl there. Her third! He hasn't had so much attention since his wife passed on." At Harry's surprised stare, she lifted her angular jaw. "Why so stunned? Did you think professors weren't human?" With that, she pointed her wand and guided a spray of hot chamomile tea into her cup.

Remembering how Madame Pomfrey had fussed over Dumbledore after the griffin attack, Harry grinned. When he surveyed the small group of pupils and staff strewn about the Great Hall and saw that Snape wasn't among them either, his grin faded.

Two hours later, after a search of as much of the castle as he could access, Harry plodded up the steps to his dorm. Although some Gryffindors had stayed, his roommates Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus had all left to spend the holiday with family. No impromptu pillow fights to cheer him up tonight, he thought resignedly. But when he opened the door, his face relaxed into a smile. Bête Noire, surely the largest black cat he'd ever seen, was perched atop his wardrobe. In his mouth, he carried a small, silver package.

"Good evening," Harry greeted him, having learned in Magical Companions that one should talk to a familiar as an equal. "I'm sorry I forgot to bring you something to eat, but if you'd like, I could nip down to the kitchen for some tidbits."

Bête Noire seemed to shrug. Then he leapt down to the rug and strutted over to brush against Harry's legs. After a good back-of-the-ear tickling, he dropped Millicent's early Christmas present at Harry's feet.

"Want me to open it now?"

The black cat sat at attention as if waiting for him to do just that.

Harry squatted on the rug, picked up the package, and weighed it in his hand. The object was round and had a solid feel to it. Mindful of Millicent's remark that the wrapping gave instructions, he opened it by carefully peeling back the tape.

"A crystal ball," he said aloud after he'd pulled aside the silvery paper.

"A Djinn ball," corrected a squeaky voice out of nowhere.

Startled, Harry dropped everything.

"Be careful," the squeaky voice added. "Djinn balls can crack."

Harry shot a glance at Bête Noire. "Was that . . . you?"

The cat began licking his back foot.

"Or—" Harry peered down at the floor "—was it the paper?"

"Of _course_, it was the paper," the squeaky voice snarled. "Cats can't talk. And if you'll please pick up the Djinn ball, I'm prepared to present lesson one."

Gingerly, Harry retrieved the ball—which _did_ look rather like crystal. But unlike the one he'd used in Trelawney's class, this was as small as a croquet ball.

"Ahem. Lesson One: Television of Familiar Locations within a Half-mile Radius. _Vision_, to see. _Tele_, distant. Not to be confused with Muggle television broadcasts of rugby matches, humorous ditties, automobile chases, or Thackery. Hold the Djinn ball to the bridge of your nose, stare into its depths, and envision the area outside your door."

The martinet voice brooked no shirking. Harry did as commanded and was surprised to see inside the Djinn ball the staircase outside his dormitory door, dimly lit by the flickering common room fire.

"Very good," the wrapping paper said. "Now proceed forward."

Harry did, feeling odd having his viewpoint descend while he stayed still. When the common room opened before him, he saw Alicia sprawled on a couch, engrossed in a paperback with a brawny, bare-chested Viking on the cover. Hearing a popping noise in the corner, he turned to see a seventh-year boy teaching a first-year boy the intricacies of Exploding Snap.

"No need to jerk about," the squeaky voice scolded. "Navigate with your mind."

Soon, Harry was racing along all the Hogwarts corridors he'd covered just a short while before. With the wrapping paper's coaching, he learned to think himself past closed doors, then past walls. He sneaked up on Professor McGonagall talking to Professor Daine in a corner of the staff room. Neither gave any sign of noticing.

"I'd never thought to see _that_ lock opened. I'd assumed the key was mangled and the bolt rusted tight. But now that you've managed it, I ask you to be careful. What is inside is a lot more fragile than one would expect. If you break it, it were better you'd not unlocked it at all."

Professor Daine laced her fingers, obviously taking the older woman's words to heart. "Break it. That's the last thing I'd ever want to do."

Quickly, Harry scanned the rest of the lounge. Not finding Snape, he left the ladies to their talk of enchanted treasure boxes and resumed probing the castle. _Dumbledore's office_. He'd been there before. According to what the wrapping paper had taught him, he should find it easy to project his senses back again through the Djinn ball. But when he reached the gargoyle, Harry found he could go no further. He could see the headmaster's quarters in his mind, but that was all it was—a mental image, a memory.

"What did you expect?" the squeaky voice piped up. "Even a Djinn ball can't counter really potent magic."

For an hour, Harry explored—looking high, looking low, backtracking, and revisiting. When he caught Myrtle moaning in her corner toilet, he felt a twinge of guilt. In the stairwell outside Snape's empty office, Nick's Almost Axed Acrobats were flipping and whirling. Harry smiled to see Dobby and Winky sharing an apple beside the kitchen hearth, though he was surprised when both darted him quick glances. Nobody else detected his presence—not Madame Pince hauling decrepit volumes off the library shelves for their yearly dusting, nor Wilhelm Avery directing a first-year Slytherin to move his chess pieces as he played Felix Moon, nor Draco Malfoy fretting over a letter to his mother. Because he'd once been in the Slytherin dungeon, Harry returned there easily. Since he'd never seen Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, he didn't know how to enter.

By the time he lowered the Djinn ball to go to bed, Harry felt cross-eyed. He removed his glasses, rubbed his nose, and rose stiffly to his feet. _Dumbledore's office_. That's where the pair had to be. He just hoped the headmaster was all right. For a moment, he thought of writing Cho—trying to patch up their awkward farewell. Tonight, like the night before, he couldn't.

* * *

"Nay, Harry. Yeh're picturin' it all wrong," Hagrid said, twitching his nose as if something tickled it. "Sev'rus would never do anythin' to harm Albus. He looks up to him, depen's on him. Why, yeh saw how choked up Sev'rus got when he presen'ed the Father Chris'mas crown."

"Choked up?" Sunday morning, after neither Snape nor Dumbledore showed up at breakfast, Harry had hurried to Hagrid's hut. Now that he'd unloaded his misgivings into the most sympathetic adult ears he could find, the contrariness of his friend's interpretation perplexed him.

"Sure, now. Sev'rus was so moved, he c'barely speak."

_Moved_? Couldn't his friend see that Snape's awkwardness had been evidence of a guilty conscience?

Hagrid pinched his nose hard. "An' wha' yeh didn' see was how fran'ic he got when Albus an' you got shocked. While yeh was out cold, he was kickin' hi'self fer bein' no expert on magical plants an' praisin' Neville 'cause he was."

Vaguely, Harry remembered hearing, _Well-done, Neville. You've done your parents proud_. Could that voice have been Snape's? "No. Surely, he was putting on an act—trying to cool suspicion. I told you what I heard—"

Abruptly, Hagrid swung his head aside and buried his face in his tea towel. The sneeze he exploded rocked the cups and saucers. "Wha' in the—Harry! Have yeh been pettin' a c-c-c-c-at?"

Hastily, Harry rose from the table and backed across the cabin. "Yes. I'm keeping Bête Noire company while Millicent's away."

"Oh, n-n-n-n-no." Hagrid gave himself up to a series of sneezes, each worse than the one before.

Harry stared at the black hairs clinging to his robes where Bête Noire had nestled on his lap. "I'm so sorry. Next time I visit, I'll change first."

Hagrid waved weakly, still coughing and snorting and trying to catch his breath. Chagrined, Harry left, closing the door behind him.

* * *

**Author's Note**: When I wrote this, I hadn't guessed Dumbledore was gay and JKR hadn't revealed it yet. But Madame Pomfrey _did _fuss over him a lot in the early books. **Please review!**


	30. Pictures

_**Chapter 30**_

**PICTURES**

Absent-mindedly grooming, feeding, and watering his house's griffin, Harry chided himself for not starting the discussion with Regis. Hagrid had repeatedly said that the fault for sending him lay with the Enchanted Preserve gamekeeper, but if he considered Willimar Avery's Hallowe'en letter and Snape's agreeing with his old friend's comment about the beast not being as fierce as they'd hoped, surely he'd recognize who had really misdirected his order. When Harry left to check on the hydra, he heard Waldo irritably pecking the gate behind him.

Trudging toward the Slytherin pen, Harry realized he was retracing the ground he'd raced over the day Regis had almost killed Professor Dumbledore. That memory sparked a host of others—flashes of danger, snatches of conversation, stabs of emotion. Suddenly, he clenched his fists in the air. "Yes!"

Raising his robes high above the muddy earth, Harry ran toward the hydra, counting on Millicent's claim about the fourth head's unusual ability. "Hey, fellows," he called out as he swung open the gate. "Remember me?"

All four heads turned toward him, tossing out four different versions of _Season's Greetings_—three in Parseltongue, one in English. The magical serpent slithered happily toward him, then nuzzled him in a manner not unlike Bête Noire's.

"Milly told us you'd visit," Demosthenes hissed.

"Set _my_ mind at ease," Erichthonius added. "Can't depend on those other two."

Ted tilted his head. "Don't be so hard—at least, not on Draco. That chap was a lot more attentive this morning than I'd ever thought he'd be."

Draco was exactly the subject Harry was eager to discuss. "Quatre, you understand humans. The day you popped out, did you catch Snape haranguing Malfoy?"

Quatre snickered breathily. "Indeed, yes! Did the professor ever give that lad what for! Dressed him down one side and chewed him up the other."

_Great!_ "And what was he giving him what for _about_? Wasn't Snape telling Malfoy not to mention the griffin to the Ministry because it might get _him_ investigated?"

Quatre shook himself all over. "Not a bit of it. The professor told Draco to own up to his sniveling behavior without flinging blame on those who'd acted better than himself."

Uncertain he'd heard properly, Harry straightened his glasses. "Better? Who?"

"Milly, of course, and Cho, and Hagrid, and—" Quatre thrust his face an amiable hand's span from Harry's "—you."

Bewildered, Harry dropped back a step. "No. You must be wrong. Not in a million years would Snape have said that."

"Oh, yes, he did. He told Draco he'd never be his own man until he accepted some responsibility. It took a month for the message to sink in, but this morning Draco did everything Millicent showed him—even gave us an oiling."

The four-headed beast zigzagged proudly, showing off the gleam on its green-and-silver scales.

Harry was not convinced, but there was no arguing with a hydra. Even the three heads that hadn't understood the dialogue between Snape and Malfoy asserted their opinions. After twenty minutes of back-and-forth, requests for clarification, and insistence that Quatre's English must be faulty, Harry took his leave, back to the castle.

Casting about for an explanation, he recalled the lecture he'd overheard Lucius Malfoy give Draco in Knockturn Alley three years before. Malfoy had rebuked his son for not being as apt a pupil as Hermione—but that hadn't stopped the old Death Eater from scheming to drive all non-purebloods such as Hermione from Hogwarts. Snape's reprimand to Draco must have been along the same lines: _Don't let the other houses show up Slytherin._

* * *

Tramping up the wide granite steps, Harry nearly bumped into Professor Flitwick peeking over an armful of books. Though the Charms master stood two steps above him, Harry's head was higher.

"Been to Hagrid's?" Flitwick's voice was as light and merry as a budgie's. "Hope the old boy was revising."

"Well, he took a break when I visited, but yes, he'd been going over his notes."

"I'm hoping he'll sit an O.W.L in Charms, but he'll need to know a lot more than Engorgio Cucurbitales Curcurbitaceae Cucurbita and Accio Feedbag."

Harry reached out to straighten a volume called _Charms Around the World_ to prevent it from sliding off Flitwick's stack. "Don't worry. He's told me how grateful he is for this opportunity."

The Charms master beamed. "Severus's idea. The rest of us thought it splendid when he broached it, but nobody dreamed the Ministry would agree. Hagrid was the loudest naysayer of all. But Severus insisted. Said the injustice had gone on long enough, that the authorities could be made to see reason."

Harry stared down at the little Charms master. "Snape—Professor Snape was the one who proposed that Hagrid get a second chance?"

"Proposed it?" Flitwick tittered. "He composed it! Detail by detail, he reported what he'd learned about Hagrid working the jelly legs hex and talking Regis into standing down. When we all signed the petition, the Ministry just had to accept."

Harry clapped a hand over his open mouth. That noon when the Magical Companions class had stood dripping in the entry, he'd assumed Snape's _The Ministry is considering my letter_ meant he'd complained about Hagrid's unauthorized use of magic. "You mean Professor Snape _praised_ Hagrid for using his wand?"

"Extolled him! The Ministry has always winked at Hagrid's limited use around Hogwarts—engorging pumpkins, piloting feedbags, and the like. With irrefutable logic, Severus argued that anyone able to help save Albus using a broken wand on half an education ought to have the chance to obtain a new wand and complete the other half."

Long after Professor Flitwick chirruped his good-byes and trotted on to Hagrid's hut, Harry was still cupping his jaw, trying to work through this incongruous new picture.

* * *

By the time Harry wandered into the Great Hall for lunch, he still hadn't come up with what nefarious motive Snape could have for helping Hagrid. Instead, his friend's words echoed in his mind: _I grew t'respect him—an' him me_.

But that didn't explain Mad Regis.

Glancing around, Harry saw that so far, only a few students had shown up. Ariel Daine had enlisted all six of them to help pull the scattered place settings from the four rival houses into one, big, happy family at the High Table. Before she could whisk him into her sociable designs, Harry about-faced into the entryway—straight into a grimacing Professor McGonagall.

"By the looks of her," she muttered, "Severus is about to come out of hiding."

At her words, Harry felt like some dam broke loose, and all his anxieties came flooding out. "What about Professor Dumbledore? Do you have any idea where he is?"

McGonagall shot Harry a baffled glance. "Up in his office, of course."

"With Snape—Professor Snape?"

"Certainly. What of it?"

Harry sucked his breath in sharply. "Is that safe? I know you suspected Professor Snape at the Hallowe'en party. Then Regis nearly killed Professor Dumbledore. What about the Yule Ball? Professor Snape handled the cap. Couldn't he have—"

Without hesitation, McGonagall grasped Harry's shoulders and gave him a good shake. "Get hold of yourself. I suspect Severus? At Hallowe'en? Of what?"

Harry stared into his housemistress's dour gray eyes, desperate for an ally. "You _did_ suspect him. I know you did. You said, _He's up to something_."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot high. "I was talking about that shenanigan he pulled with Slytherin's mascot for the St. Mungo's charity fete. What did you think I'd meant?"

"But his letter from Avery, Sr.—"

"Was permission to bring a hydra to Hogwarts. It's native to the Greek isles, and a Ministry permit is required to import one into Britain."

"But Avery—"

"Works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"Yes, but he's also back with the Death Eaters. And he used to be Professor Snape's best friend. And—"

"Severus loathes him." Professor McGonagall gazed askance at Harry as if waiting for him to interrupt again. When he didn't, she continued. "Where you heard they'd once been mates, I can't fathom—but gossip will circulate. What you evidently don't know is that when he was at school, Severus's family had... a spot of money trouble. Being the kind of self-aggrandizing, self-serving scoundrel he is, Avery cut Severus off..."

Harry tried to look as if this information was news to him. Distracted, he peered back through the doors at Professor Daine gamboling about the Great Hall, flourishing her wand. Her cheerfulness just made him more impatient to convince his housemistress of Snape's guilt. Then McGonagall added a detail that snapped Harry back to attention.

"When the Dark Lord made Severus his favorite Potions master, Avery pretended they'd had a misunderstanding. When matters went the other way, he tried to persuade Severus he'd been under an Imperius Curse. Severus let him believe he'd succeeded. But do you think he _ever_ forgave Avery for dropping him when they were schoolmates?" McGonagall's strict mouth curved fondly. "_Nobody_ can hold a grudge like Severus."

Frowning into her matter-of-fact gray eyes, Harry had to admit the story rang true. "You're _positive_ Avery's letter was about the hydra?"

"Undoubtedly. Severus asked the favor because cultivating that old tie is to _our _advantage. If, in the process, he could show up the rest of us—get Slytherin a mythological wonder that outdid our ordinary beasts—well, that was icing on his cake."

"But Avery apologized that the beast wasn't as fierce as they'd hoped, and Snape said his efforts were still appreciated. Couldn't they have been talking about..." When McGonagall eyed him quizzically, Harry let his voice trail off.

"Now where could you have heard that?" She shrugged. "Again, they plainly meant the hydra. Miss Bulstrode has shown me the beast. An endearing creature. Every time she gets it to bare its fangs, the next minute those four heads snuggle up for her approval."

Harry exhaled slowly. _Not quite as fierce as they'd hoped_. Chastened, he stared at his own feet. "So... Professor Snape had nothing to do with the griffin?"

"Obviously. You saw how put out he was when it arrived." McGonagall chuckled in remembrance. "Hagrid contacted the Enchanted Preserve on _my _behalf. So unless you're suggesting he or I—"

"No, of course, not." Looking up, Harry saw Ariel Daine glowing at them from the doorway. Under her breath, she was humming _Ode to Joy_.

* * *

Ten minutes later at the high table, Harry noted that Professor Daine was sighing, not humming, as she poked her fork at her turkey pastie.

A spoonful of mashed yams halfway to her mouth, McGonagall glanced at her fellow teacher. With an exasperated click of her tongue, she lowered her spoon. "Chin up. They can't stay there forever. Soon, they'll either succeed or give in."

His housemistress spoke softly, but since only a sullenly close-mouthed Slytherin and a bashfully quiet Hufflepuff separated them, Harry heard her clearly. He watched Daine force a smile to her lips, then turn her mild hazel eyes on the silent third-year boys.

"Cagliostro, Pip—did you know you were the only two kids last semester who really understood bugbears?"

Hastily, Harry focused his attention on his mushy peas. If he didn't appear occupied, she'd coax him into taking part in the hesitant conversation starting up between the two classmates. When he thought Daine wouldn't notice, he stole a glance at Madame Pomfrey's latest owl preening herself beside the headmaster's empty plate.

Then a chorus of greetings from the rest of the group switched Harry's attention to the doorway. Dumbledore ambled in, a sheepish smile on his face. The habitual serenity in the blue eyes made Harry relax for the first time in a day. Snape tramped after the headmaster, scowling. When his gaze met Ariel Daine's, his gloominess cleared a little. He shrugged and shook his head.

Nearing the table, Dumbledore told McGonagall, "An impasse, but never mind. Tonight, the expert is coming. He'll figure out what we're doing wrong."

At that assurance, Snape growled, "Muggle artifacts," then slumped down beside Daine. In a moment, the two were so engrossed conversing with each other that they might as well not have been present at all.

As Dumbledore passed, he bent close to Harry. "About that talk. I'm sorry I delayed it. But sometimes stories improve when you have time to reconsider them. After I sup, I'm taking a nice, long nap. But come by my office at ten for a late night snack. I'll leave word with the gargoyle. A surprise is coming I think you'll enjoy."

* * *

**Hi!** **Please tell me what you think—in brief or at length. Thanks! Each chapter takes about 10 hours to write. The only payment is reader response.**


	31. Artifacts

_**Chapter 31**_

**ARTIFACTS**

As Dumbledore hustled about, readying two mugs of hot, frothy butterbeer and a tray of snickerdoodles, Harry stared at the buzzing, zapping, sparking apparatus set up on the table across the room: a computer system. The torn cardboard and Styrofoam packing discarded in the corner told him he'd discovered what had been in the mysterious boxes he'd hauled up the Friday before. A tangle of eerily glowing wires connected the processing tower, monitor, keyboard, and printer to an electric generator that alternately whirred and died. Streams of yellow light shot between the units using no wires at all. Despite all the magic Snape and Dumbledore had spent ten hours applying to the system, the screen remained black—except for a spectral gray shape that occasionally flitted across, reminding Harry of the term _ghost in the machine_.

The portraits of former headmasters had evidently given up on the unruly Muggle artifacts as well. They'd all drifted off to sleep in their frames.

With a sigh, the headmaster settled into an overstuffed chair and waited for the tray to alight on the table beside him. In one arm, he cradled a thick photograph album. He handed it to Harry, then lifted his mug of steaming butterbeer to take a sip.

Harry wasn't quite so eager to talk as he'd been the day before. Grateful for a diversion, he opened the album.

"Friends and family," the headmaster explained. "It took some time to gather them all, but it was worth the while."

As Harry turned the pages, Dumbledore identified each photo, starting with sepia-toned portraits of his parents that didn't move and proceeding to laughing, winking siblings and cousins, many of whom shared the same deep auburn hair. When Harry came to a round-faced witch with light brown curls and a twinkle in her eyes, Dumbledore murmured, "That was Coriander—my wife."

Next to her, Harry saw a young lady with familiar blue eyes. "Your daughter?"

"Very discerning of you, yes."

"She has your face," Harry explained.

"Though not my proboscis, I hope." Dumbledore leaned back, his large, bumpy nose sticking out in profile. "Along with Corrie, Rosette was my life's great happiness—and its sadness, too. They have both passed on."

Harry studied her kind face a moment, thinking this was a woman he wished he had known. Further on, the album revealed the Hogwarts staff at various ages. Students were also represented—playing Quidditch, displaying awards, or just waving from the gardens. Flipping a page, he was surprised to see a schoolboy picture of Sirius and Snape—though the tautness of their smiles showed they weren't happy about the pairing.

Pointing at the chess trophy hanging midair between them, Dumbledore said, "An unbelievable match. Forty-two games over three days. We had to call it a draw."

Holding back a grin, Harry continued through more shots than he'd imagined the album could hold until he came across a series he recognized. "My parents' wedding."

"Yes. Lily and James were very special to me."

"And that's why you keep a special eye on their son." When the headmaster nodded, Harry's worries came out in a rush. "That's why you made me stay instead of visiting the Weasleys. You thought I was in danger. But you're wrong. The statue and the griffin—their attacks were aimed at you. The shock laurel proved that."

A slow smile appeared between Dumbledore's snowy white mustache and long, snowy beard. "You are _always_ in danger, Harry. That is the sad truth so long as Voldemort lives. But that is not the reason I kept you here. You have two surprises coming, one quite soon. As for _my_ being in danger—that is also always true. But yes, this autumn the threat has been more keenly targeted. Rest assured: all three events are being investigated."

Harry let his head flop back against his chair, realizing just how exhausted his day and a half of agitation had made him. "I've been _investigating_, too."

"And the only truth you've uncovered is that the culprit is not Severus Snape."

Dumbledore's quiet words so startled Harry that he flipped the picture album off his lap. Calmly, the headmaster pointed at it and floated it to his desk. Harry bit his lip, waiting for the flush to leave his cheeks.

"This isn't the first time you've misjudged our Potions master—nor, I warrant, your last."

Harry recalled the reason he'd given Hermione so many weeks before: _Because Snape keeps on doing suspicious things_. He blew out his breath. "I guess it's the fact that Professor Snape used to be a Death Eater. I can't get that out of my mind. You told me once that you trusted him anyway—but you couldn't tell me the reason." He glanced sidelong at the headmaster. If the answer had anything to do with his mother, he didn't really want to know.

"_The_ reason?" Dumbledore smiled. "In truth, there are several. But let's consider his having been a Death Eater. Actually, a large part of _why_ I trust him is connected to that past."

A rumble rose from the computer, as if seconding Harry's skepticism.

Dumbledore glanced sternly at the CPU, then turned toward Harry. "When Voldemort fell, except for a few fanatics, every Death Eater claimed to have acted under an Imperius Curse. Severus was the only one scrupulous enough to admit to having once believed. Yet he was the only one who turned against Voldemort at the height of his power. To have risked that from the inner circle took noble convictions."

"But many people _never_ believed in Voldemort. You didn't."

"No, not me—but many did. Some of the best and the brightest were fooled by him. My own daughter, for one."

Remembering the gentle-faced Rosette, Harry winced. "She wasn't—"

"With the Death Eaters? Oh, gracious, no. That was long before. Voldemort wasn't even Voldemort, then."

"Even so, how could . . . ." Harry removed his glasses and clenched them in his hand. "I saw Voldemort with what is left of his Death Eaters. He was vengeful, cruel, explosive—just plain scary. I can't see how anyone _ever_ could have followed him. What could anyone, even those villains I saw with him, ever have hoped to gain from that madman?"

Instead of answering, Dumbledore picked up his butterbeer. Dutifully, Harry reached for his. He took a long draught, studying the headmaster through the rising steam. At last, Dumbledore said, "He has had many faces."

Harry put aside his mug, intent on listening.

"For a time Voldemort was a viable force in wizard affairs. He never involved himself directly in Ministry matters, but his followers made it clear that their ideas originated with him. And early on, many of those ideas were irreproachable. First, it was preservation of endangered magical creatures. Several breeds of British dragon were headed for extinction. Even I couldn't fault his arguments for their protection."

Harry nodded. His mother and Hagrid had also believed in that cause.

"Then came Muggles. Since time immemorial, encounters between the magical and the non-magical have created problems, sometimes disasters. Voldemort made a widely supported case for tightening the rules that govern our interactions. I argued that his views were too restrictive, but I could hardly call their supporters evil.

"Bit by bit, his message grew more insidious." Light from the malfunctioning computer flickered over Dumbledore's face. "Millennia ago, certain areas of magic became taboo. Their temptation had proved too dangerous. Voldemort said_ it wasn't necessarily so_. Wielding this power, he said, far-seeing magicians of good will could solve the crises of the Muggle-run world. He termed it _control over chaos_. This time, I called his philosophy as I saw it—a will to dominate and repress. Some began to agree."

"_The old crowd_." Dumbledore had used that term the year before. Harry had been glad to find Remus Lupin numbered among them. He'd been astounded to hear the name Arabella Figg—the old lady who had bored him with cat photos when he was a boy. His father and mother had been in that group—he just knew it. And Sirius, too.

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "But not Severus. Not at first."

"Why?"

Dumbledore inspected Harry over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. "Due to various circumstances, Severus finished Hogwarts with an overpowering need to prove himself. Due to hostility he'd engendered during his schooldays, the Ministry rejected his application to become an auror. Everywhere he sought a position, rumors of the breadth and depth of his studies, the extent of his skills and expertise, preceded him. And they closed doors. Nobody wanted to hire someone so likely to know more than they did."

Harry cocked his head. "So, you're saying being a good student doesn't pay?"

"I hope I'm not." Dumbledore shrugged. "_I_ tried to interest Severus in replacing the retiring Potions master, but he considered staying at Hogwarts a surrender. For a year, he did odd jobs. Then Lucius Malfoy hired him. He encouraged Severus's fascination for just those forbidden realms of magic that so interested Voldemort. He filled Severus's head with visions of that rascal's lofty goals. _Control over chaos_. That is an illusion Severus had always—perhaps always will—desire. When at last the Dark Lord called him to service, Severus was eager to show his worth."

Afraid to fidget, Harry folded his hands around his glasses. The headmaster was sketching in more gaps in the enigma called Severus Snape than a session under Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder. He wanted no distraction to break the thread.

"Some attracted Voldemort's attention by their lust for power. Others by their willingness to be led. With Severus, it was his mind. Because of his flair for arcane languages and cryptic runes, he was set the task of delving into ancient texts and experimenting with what he found. Voldemort was so pleased with Severus's endeavors that he offered him the chance to rise higher. That was the Dark Lord's mistake."

Again, Dumbledore paused to sip his drink. Harry could see conflict creasing his forehead. Was it worse to betray Snape's past or leave him unexplained? After a painfully long minute, the headmaster sighed. "Voldemort invited him to become a Death Eater. Severus believed his most noble aspirations were about to come true. He entered the ceremony willingly, eager to receive the mark that would identify him as one of the chosen few. He had no foreknowledge of what obtaining it would involve."

The darkening look on Dumbledore's face made Harry's tongue go dry. He had the urge to jump up to get another mug of butterbeer. To perhaps not return. To perhaps not hear the rest of the story the headmaster was steeling himself to continue.

"Let me just say, the ritual involved a young Muggle girl and all three of the unforgivable curses. Severus was horrified. But he kept his silence. He played along. He received the brand."

Harry's jaw dropped. "A young girl? They compelled her to come, then tortured and killed her? And Professor Snape did nothing to stop them?"

Dumbledore gave Harry a measuring look. "You think that cowardice. But Severus is nothing if not logical. It is not in his makeup to attempt the impossible."

"But the girl . . . ."

"Severus couldn't have saved her. Yet he blamed himself anyway. He had nowhere to turn. His father was missing. His mother had run out on him. His school friends were themselves Death Eaters. The person he most trusted, he was ashamed to face. So finally, he unburdened himself to me. _A Gryffindor would have tried to save her_, he said. I answered, _Then I'm grateful it was a Slytherin that was there_."

Harry stared at Dumbledore.

"Oh, yes. Brave Gryffindor would have tried and most certainly been killed. Cunning Slytherin bided his time and gave us the most valuable agent we've ever had."

Harry pressed his head back against his chair. He remembered Ariel Daine's horror at seeing the Dark Mark on Snape's arm and her apologies the morning after. Professor Dumbledore must have painted this same picture for her. Despite himself, he was feeling stirrings of sympathy for the old Slytherin.

Dumbledore entwined his fingers in his beard. "Severus perpetrated deceptions on the Dark Lord more crafty and more perilous than you can imagine. Even now, it frightens me to think of them." Abruptly he stopped, listening. Then he raised a hand as if to signal time out. "But those tales will have to wait. Your surprise is about to enter."

Harry gaped. "You can't stop now. Don't leave me dangling. Go on. Please."

Before he could get out another stuttering word, the door swept open and the subject of Dumbledore's story entered, gazing suspiciously from one to the other of them.

"Severus!" the headmaster said heartily. "Did you bring him?"

In answer, the Potions master stepped aside and another man strolled forward.

"Remus!" Harry exclaimed, then sprang out of his chair to race across the floor.

His parents' old friend wrapped him in a warm hug. Then he held Harry at arm's length. "You've grown!"

"And you've been making money," Harry responded happily.

Laughing, Remus released Harry, then self-consciously ran his fingers down his expensive-looking, burgundy, cashmere traveling cloak. Harry noticed that his brown hair was stylishly cut so that the gray made him look distinguished rather than old. His face glowed with good health, though his eyes seemed a little tired. Harry recalled that a few days ago, the moon had been a sliver, so at least two weeks had passed since his friend's last struggle against becoming a werewolf.

Snape flicked his black eyes disapprovingly from the man to the teen.

As if reading the glance, Remus smiled. "You forget, I'm not his professor anymore. I'm just an old family friend."

"A misunderstanding," Snape mumbled, then strode across the room.

Harry suppressed a grin, certain that was the closest to an apology Snape would ever give for losing Remus his Defense Against the Dark Arts position two years before. With a wink at Harry and a greeting to Dumbledore, his friend sauntered over to join Snape before the blinking, growling, vibrating collection of Muggle artifacts.

"Oh, my," Remus observed, "you _have_ been busy."

Impatiently, Snape waved his hand. "Lupin, be my guest." Then he retreated a pace, folded his arms, and glowered.

As majestically as a stage magician, Remus swept off his cloak, revealing wide khaki trousers sporting an array of ingenious pockets. At his belt hung a tooled leather case displaying small gauge screwdrivers, needle-nosed pliers, and his wizard's wand. Jauntily, he aimed his cloak at a distant coat rack. It caught perfectly. "All right, now. Let's see what can be done."

* * *

**Yes, yes, very AU:** Please comment.


	32. Sketches

_**Chapter 32**_

**SKETCHES**

Monday evening, Harry couldn't believe how perfectly the computer was running—though he couldn't tell what was powering it. The dead generator sat abandoned in the corner. And from somewhere, he got a whiff of cooked cabbage.

Dumbledore pounded the keyboard, lobbing rocks at a Cyclops bellowing on the screen. Watching Dudley battle monsters back at the Dursleys, Harry had yearned for a chance at the controls. Now, he feinted right and left with the headmaster's surrogate Hercules until the Cyclops smashed the tiny warrior into digital dust. The scene disintegrated, replaced by a merciless, _I thought you'd be a hero, but you're just a zero_.

In the portraits lining the walls, several of the old headmasters appeared to groan while others shook their heads.

Dumbledore sighed. "I can't get past level three."

Harry grinned, hoping that the professor's invitation had meant he'd get a turn on the computer—just as soon as Remus finished tinkering with it. Right now, his friend was corkscrewed behind the central processing unit. Ariel Daine crouched nearby, watching with admiration. A yard away, glaring down his prominent nose, stood Snape.

"We're ready to plug in the modem," Remus said. "Let's widen the portal."

Harry squatted to peer under the table—in time to see a hole expanding in the wall. On the other side smiled a wizened old lady clasping a disgruntled Persian cat.

"Mrs. Figg," he breathed. He noticed that the computer's power cord was already threaded through the hole and plugged into an outlet in his old babysitter's living room. Now he knew the origin of both the computer's electricity and the cabbage smell.

"Spatial displacement," Professor Daine murmured. "How clever."

Noticing Harry, Mrs. Figg grabbed her cat's paw and waved it. "Hello! Tickles the Fourth says _hello_, too!"

"How are you?" Harry called out loudly enough for a somewhat deaf old lady.

"I'm ninety-two," Mrs. Figg responded as Remus dropped a wire with a telephone jack through the hole. When she set her cat down, it scampered away. With aching slowness, she bent over for the modem jack, then hobbled with it to her wall.

"Not the power outlet, sweetheart," Remus shouted. "The socket under the telephone stand. That's right, dear."

A yowl answered by an explosion of snarls distracted Mrs. Figg. Still holding the wire, she started to rise. Then she remembered, popped in the jack, and doddered away.

Remus poked his head through the hole, then twisted back around. "We'll have to thank her some other time. She's settling a domestic dispute." Pointing his wand, he shrank the wall opening to a size just large enough to accommodate the two cords.

"You've worked a miracle," Professor Daine said as Remus crawled out and stood to brush dust balls off his loose-fit jeans. "Wherever did you learn to do all this?"

"Minerva created the portal. I'm a bit rusty on spatial transfiguration. And the computer, well, I was off work last year, so I had time for some tech courses."

As Remus took Dumbledore's place at the keyboard, Harry saw Professor Daine starting to frown. "I heard how you lost your job. Disgraceful. Prejudice against a medical condition, plain and simple. You should have lodged a grievance."

Remus smiled faintly. "If I'd wanted to go that route, Albus would have backed me completely. But once the story of my _medical condition_ was out, there was no calling it back. And you can't tell nervous parents they're just being prejudiced."

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape grimace. "A misunderstanding."

Righteous indignation flamed in Professor Daine's hazel eyes. "You wouldn't believe the number of times I've heard, _But Professor Lupin said_. The way the kids remember you says what a great teacher you were. That some anonymous gossip would maliciously bandy about your lycanthropism to lose you your job makes me mad."

Snape winced like he'd been struck. His lips moved slightly but without a reply.

Dumbledore coughed as though trying to come up with a diplomatic explanation.

Remus swiveled in his chair. "There was no malice. The person who let my secret slip did so because he believed I was a confederate of a man he mistook for a murderer. He thought us both in league with Voldemort. He honestly thought that if I stayed, I might kill one of the students. Harry, actually. The entire affair was—" he shot Snape a lopsided smile "—a misunderstanding."

"Of the most abysmally miscalculated sort." Snape passed a hand over his forehead. "Lupin's replacement _was_ a murderer in league with Voldemort. He was instrumental in the death of one student and nearly in Potter's, as well."

"Not everything can be foretold," Dumbledore said quietly.

Harry stared at Snape, the events of the Shrieking Shack flying through his mind. Again and again, the professor had insisted that he was saving everyone's neck, that Sirius had spent the year trying to kill him, and that the werewolf had been helping him. Harry had assumed Snape had revealed Remus's secret out of pique at losing the Order of Merlin. Had he really been trying to protect Lily's son?

"We all know," Remus added reasonably, "that if Barty Crouch hadn't come to Hogwarts as Mad-Eye Moody, he would have come as someone else."

Daine nodded. "Evil thwarted from one direction will try another."

"Well said," Remus agreed. "But luckily, happiness thwarted will also find a different path. For me, things have turned out better than I ever would have hoped. After years of bumming around, I've found my niche. I'm sharing a flat in the West End, living comfortably. And I doubt there's any regret about my replacement this year." Pivoting back to the computer, he began lightly playing on the keys.

With a strained smile, Snape plodded across the room to where elves had left wine and glasses. He poured a portion and drank it. Spent, he sank into a corner chair.

Harry looked away, recalling the answer Hermione had been unable to provide to her Advanced Potions examination question about Veritaserum: _The truth of any information revealed is only partial._ _Different viewpoints are necessary to truly understand it_. In the last two days, he had seen Snape from more angles than he could have imagined. Now he was experiencing a fellow feeling for the irascible man he'd never dreamed possible. He could even picture how Ariel Daine could have taken enough pity on him to dance as she did at the Yule ball—but only because she was especially kind-hearted.

Remus paused a moment, then tapped the _Enter_ key. Strange noises came out of the computer. "That's the electronic handshake. . . any moment now . . . here we go . . . ."

Everyone crowded around the computer—everyone except Snape. When Harry glanced behind him, he saw the Potions master rooted in his corner, somberly tipping back a second goblet of wine.

"Here's one of _my_ favorites," Remus said, as an engraving of an old-time navigator appeared on the screen. "Her Majesty's Nautical Almanac Office—the exact dates and times for moon phase and moon rise."

After _oo's_ and _ahh's_, Daine asked, "Could you find Tonawanda National Wildlife Refuge? It's a swamp in Alabama. I'm a bit homesick."

The wildlife refuge led to rare birds, to the Phoenix, to Hopi Kachina dolls. Harry sidetracked everyone into the Wudang Mountains. Dumbledore located an on-line store offering 692 styles of socks. Harry had almost forgotten the Potions master until he heard a portentous whisper: "This will kill that."

Startled, Harry and the others whipped around.

Stretching out his hand like a prophet of doom, Snape pointed at the computer. "This will kill—" he raised his long black wand ominously above his head and released one purple spark "—that."

Remus arched an eyebrow. "You're being a touch melodramatic, aren't you?"

Snape thrust out his pointed chin. "Who will go sleepless pondering obscure scrolls when typing a search term can bring up an _Ask the Experts_ answer? Who will toil over innumerable, painstaking, hand-inked drafts when word processing is easier? Who will set out to absorb all knowledge when a computer can store it more quickly?"

Dumbledore stroked his long, white beard. "Magic can take many forms. Sometimes, we of the Craft tend to be stick-in-the-muds. Rigidity will make us obsolete."

"The opposite," Snape muttered, "is chaos."

"Oh, Severus." Daine bit her lower lip, then flashed him a cajoling glance. "Notre Dame _has _survived the printing press."

Snape's head lolled back as he laughed. "Muggle trivia! All right, then. Bring on this neoteric magic." Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and picked his way across the carpet with the delicacy of a man who'd had to much to drink. "Have at it! A duel to the death!"

As Harry stepped aside for the Potions master, he heard the office door creak. Madame Pomfrey bustled in, her arms full of packages.

"Hello, Albus! Everybody! I cut my trip short. I couldn't stay away a minute longer. Minerva told me you were all up here. I have gifts for everyone." When she handed Dumbledore a parcel shaped like a figure eight, he kissed her cheek. Her face was still pink when she ended her rounds by handing Harry a daintily wrapped box.

_Something of my mother's_! This gift couldn't wait for Christmas. Hugging it, Harry dashed over to the deep chair Snape had vacated.

Looking too flustered to face the headmaster, Madame Pomfrey followed. She hovered alongside as he ripped away the angel-patterned paper.

Inside, Harry found a bound sketchbook. He ran his hand over the washed silk cover, savoring his anticipation. "Did she like to draw? I didn't know."

The first few pages featured thumbnail sketches—flowers, rabbit ears, teapots, doe eyes, butterfly wings. Even more delightful, Harry discovered that when he touched the delicately penciled drawings, they sprang to sprightly, whimsical life. Exploring further, he found studies of faces—including one that looked suspiciously like a younger, less prissy Aunt Petunia almost daring to smile. When he came to a self-portrait of his mother, he was thrilled to hear a sweet, soft voice in his mind: _James, have a great summer! See you next year— Love, Lily. _

"This is wonderful," Harry breathed. "Thank you."

Madame Pomfrey blushed even harder.

The following page made Harry gasp. _The Marauders!_ James, his black hair as shaggy as his son's, stood in the center, brandishing his wand. On one side, Remus leaned companionably against him and waved. On the other, Sirius flashed a bad boy leer over a pair of dark glasses. Little Peter huddled at their feet, content to be a part of the gang.

Harry was about to summon Remus, when the next picture made him pause. The oddness of the angle—someone's back—puzzled him. The long dark hair didn't reveal whether the subject was a boy or a girl. As Harry touched a sweeping line he heard a lilting, "The wyvern scales will keep, dear. I have an inspiration. Lie down." He smiled. But when he caught a familiar, silky soft murmur, "I'll get grass stains on my jacket," he jerked his hand away as if he'd been burned.

"Is that your father?" Madame Pomfrey asked kindly. "You can't see his face."

"Yes," Harry answered hastily. "My father."

On the far side of the room, the middle-aged Snape sat stonily at the computer as Remus initiated him into the mysteries of the Worldwide Web, unaware of his teen-aged self sharing a different kind of mystery with Lily Evans.

"I'm feeling a bit knackered," Harry told Madame Pomfrey, trying to sound more easy-going than he felt. "Could you tell everyone _good night_ for me?"

"Certainly, child. Get to bed. A boy your age needs lots of rest."

* * *

Harry trotted down the dark, echoing corridors to Gryffindor Tower, clutching his mother's sketchbook, anxious for a moment alone. Minutes later, he burst breathless into his dorm, jumped fully dressed into bed, pulled the curtains, and buried himself under his covers. Shakily, he lit his wand and flipped to the fateful page. This time, he forced himself to hold his finger to the sketch while he stared at the animated lines.

"The wyvern scales will keep, dear," Lily Evans said. "I have an inspiration. Lie down."

"I'll get grass stains on my jacket," Severus Snape complained. "I can't afford another until I'm on my own and working. Can't we do this standing?"

Lily's light, high laughter rang out in her son's mind like mockingbird song. Her graceful hands entered the sketch, urging Snape to lie down until his head rested at the bottom of the frame and his knees jutted up at the top. "Relax," she soothed. "You're the most unyielding chap I've ever known."

"For you, I'll lie down," Snape replied, smoothing back his long, black hair. "There's no one I can relax with except you."

An unseen gust blew a single, line-drawn maple leaf across the page. The vignette was over, and Snape remained still, captured for all time, lounging for Lily.

Harry shut his eyes tight. This was a picture of Snape he wished he'd never seen.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Remember, this is 1995 Internet with modems and no Wi-Fi. The telephone line connections used to make funny screeching noises before the connection was made.

BTW, the Muggle trivia Snape throws out that Daine recognizes is from The Hunchback of Notre Dame where Frollo darkly comments that the printing press would kill Notre Dame Cathedral (or, at least what it represented).

Oh, yes: please review.


	33. Reasons

_**Chapter 33**_

**Reasons**

When Remus tiptoed into the fifth-year Gryffindor boys' dorm an hour later, Harry was still thrashing sleeplessly on his bed. He pretended to snore so his parents' old friend wouldn't ask him any questions—even though he was burning to ask ones of his own . . . but only if Remus gave him the answers he wanted to hear.

_Of course, we all knew your mother was friendly with Severus Snape. An act of charity, nothing more. Yes, your mother called everyone dear. And the lounging sketch? Just an Art of Magic assignment to draw someone with bad teeth. _

Harry rolled over, wrapping his blankets around him like a winding sheet. No matter what excuses he invented, he couldn't quash his uneasy impression that the relationship had been secret—falsely indifferent when others were watching, strangely intimate when the two were alone. Of all the qualities he'd imagined in his mother, _sneaky_ had never been one of them.

Harry gritted his teeth. If she'd had a passing fancy for someone—someone she'd brushed off as soon as she'd met his father—that wouldn't be so bad. But hadn't Hagrid described his parents as a pair from year one? Then how could his mother, in year six, have called another boy _dear_? Discovering Severus Snape had had feelings for Lily Evans had been disquieting enough. To learn she'd had some sort of feelings for _him_ was downright alarming.

By the time Harry untangled himself from his bedcovers at dawn, he'd vowed to uncover the secret, once and for all—no matter how sneaky he'd have to be to do it.

* * *

At breakfast, Harry sat down beside Remus. His friend greeted him warmly, then leaned forward to continue his amiable debate with Ariel Daine. The former and current Defense Against the Dark Arts professors ignored the clattering crockery around them as they argued the restorative powers of licorice wands versus chocolate frogs. With false nonchalance, Harry reached for the canister of dried cherries and pecan halves to sprinkle them over his oatmeal, wondering how the tardy Potions master would take the tête-à-tête.

He didn't have to wonder long. A minute later, Snape swept back the double doors into the Great Hall, then froze. Harry hadn't seen such resentment spark in the black eyes since that buffoon Lockhart had made the mistake of claiming he could best the Potions master in a wizard duel. Then a tremor of uncertainty passed over Snape's face. He blinked. Twisting his lips into an uncharacteristically cordial smile, he strolled forward.

Quickly, Harry looked down to concentrate on stirring his porridge. He didn't look up until he heard Remus's cheerful greeting to the Potions master.

Snape stopped behind Ariel Daine. With an air of forced casualness, he cupped his hands around her shoulders. Brightening, she tipped her head back to smile at him. With his next deep breath, he seemed to relax. Then he reached into his voluminous black robes and pulled out a glass bottle of long green pills.

"You've done it!" Remus exclaimed. "No more nasty, reeking potions. You're a genius."

Snape furrowed his forehead, clearly confused at being praised, then thrust the bottle at Remus. "Tonight the moon begins to wax. Take one caplet at bedtime. To be effective, the remedy must be continued throughout the lunar cycle. Scrupulous adherence should allow you to remain homomorphous at its end."

Nodding happily, Remus stashed the bottle in his royal blue robes. "Your other _patient_ will arrive Christmas Eve. Everything has been arranged."

Snape's eyes hooded slightly. "My eagerness cannot be contained."

When Harry opened his mouth to ask a question, Remus nudged him under the table. Putting his friend's warning together with the displeasure twitching Snape's left cheek, Harry's heart leapt. He remembered Dumbledore's promise that he had a second surprise coming. Now he knew who it would be: _Sirius_!

* * *

Outside the Great Hall, Harry tried to ask Remus about his godfather. Why had he referred to him as a _patient_? But, with a meaningful glance at the passing Draco Malfoy and Wilhelm Avery, his friend changed the subject. Malfoy mumbled an acknowledgment of his ex-teacher's _Good Morning_. Avery just narrowed his eyes as he strolled by.

Remus smiled. "It'd be best if we saved our talk for the Gryffindor dorm. I'm afraid I won't be free to come there until quite late. After I finish installing computer programs, I begin the tutorials. Professor Flitwick wants me to teach him how to write a database application to catalog spells. Professor Sinistra is determined to learn in one day a statistical package that takes Muggle university students half a year to master." He rolled his eyes. "Wizards!"

* * *

At midnight, Harry was still waiting for his friend to return to Gryffindor. He didn't mind the delay, though. He was still struggling over his letter to Cho. Hedwig strutting back and forth across the back of the writing table wasn't helping. The great snowy owl punctuated each about-face with a hoot of annoyance. Across the room on Neville's bed, the lounging Bête Noire opened one eye.

"Patience," Harry murmured, offering another of the vole-flavored owl treats he'd bought that day in Hogsmeade. At least, he'd decided on _Dear Cho_, having discarded _Dearest Cho_ as too forward and _Hey, Cho!_ as too offhand. But what should he write about? The drama of the Yule Ball played through his mind—Snape's and Daine's startling public display of affection, Dobby's unexpected disclosure about Malfoy, the third alarming attack on Dumbledore, his own ludicrous attempt to play the hero.

_The Great Hall looked charming for the Yule Ball, as you would expect. Professor Flitwick made enchanted name cards that looked like snowflakes. Ron ended up dancing with Hermione, which is what I wanted anyway. The professors crowned Headmaster Dumbledore Father Christmas. Someone blundered and used shock laurel instead of regular laurel. Neville handled it._

What Harry really wanted to do was ask how Cho felt about him. Now that he knew what _PDA_ stood for, her exasperation when he'd claimed he'd forced her took on a new embarrassing significance. Even now, the memory of her gasp made his cheeks burn. And her blank stare out the carriage window—what had it meant?

_I'm sorry about what happened on the train platform. The detention wasn't bad, though. I got plenty of fresh air._

Harry wondered if Cho had divulged all her secrets to her great-great-grandmother. If so, what had her ghostly advisor answered? _He doesn't sound worthy to me. Too impulsive. Too undisciplined. You say you've taught him to soar, but could he summon the magic when it really mattered? From what you've told me, I believe he'd lose all self-control and fall flat on his—_

Inhaling sharply, Harry shut the old girl up and continued his letter.

_I'm looking after Millicent's cat Bête Noire while she's away. She gave me a Djinn ball as a thank-you present._

Harry frowned. He didn't want Cho to think he was mentioning his friendship with Millicent just to prove how open-minded he'd become about Slytherins and earn himself points.

_So far, I've learned to use the ball to see familiar places nearby. I wish I could use it to visit unknown places faraway. I miss our early morning Wudang Shen lessons and studying with you in the library. I expect things to be pretty boring around here until—_

Harry tapped his quill against his closed mouth, toying with the various ways that sentence could end: _until we meet again_, _until I hold you in my arms, until we—_

—_everyone gets back from holiday._

Harry sighed. Then he signed his name, refrained from adding X's and O's, rolled up the note, and slid it into the waterproof leather tube strapped to Hedwig's right leg. She hooted softly, as if to say, _About time_. She pecked up one last owl treat and fluttered to the casement. He followed, unhooked the latch, and swung the mullioned window wide. Without a backward glance, his bird took wing. He soon lost sight of her in the darkness. As Snape had said, the moon had just started to wax. Even so, Harry remained standing with the night air chilling his cheeks until he heard the dormitory door creak. He pulled the glass shut and turned to see Remus slouching in the doorway. Immediately, Bête Noire hopped off the bed and sauntered over to weave sympathetically around the older man's ankles.

"Let me bring you some hot cider," Harry said, striding over to the fireplace. Using the maroon potholder Mrs. Weasley had knitted, he removed the simmering kettle and poured two cups. As he set out a late night snack, Remus started preparing for sleep, wandering back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom, relating amusing anecdotes of magician versus machine.

"The staff are talking about setting up a network throughout Hogwarts—enough work to last me until Spring," Remus finished as he knotted his russet velour dressing-gown, sank into an overstuffed chair, waited for Bête Noire to curl up on his lap, then reached for his steaming mug. "I don't know if my roommate in London would appreciate that, though."

As he spoke, Remus examined the first of his long green pills. With a grimace, he popped it into his mouth and washed it down with cider. Then he grinned. "Not bad."

Harry peered at him skeptically. "How do you know it'll work?"

"I don't, actually. Just in case, I'll have to be locked up at the next full moon. But Severus has been working on this remedy since July, testing the formula on rats injected with some of my blood. I'm confident enough that I plan to bring along a novel to pass the time while I'm confined."

_Rats?_ Harry's mouth opened slightly as he recalled the cages in the Potion master's office. "Since July? I'd never pictured Snape—Professor Snape—taking such trouble to help someone."

Remus shrugged. "I expect it's mostly an intellectual challenge with him. But believe me, I'm grateful that intellect is on our side."

Harry straightened his glasses. "And the other _patient_—that's Sirius, isn't it?"

"I thought you'd guessed."

Harry frowned. "He's not—"

"Ill? Not that I know of, but it's a wonder he's not, isn't it? Keeping on the run, as he does. No, Severus is working on something altogether different for him. If you ever wanted proof of Severus's commitment, the fact that he's putting his animosity toward Sirius aside to help him is it."

Remus hadn't volunteered just what form that help would take. Harry supposed he'd find out from his godfather on Christmas Eve. Right now, he had other questions on his mind, ones he'd been worrying about since morning. How to begin? "Sirius really _hated_ Severus Snape in school, didn't he? Why?" _It wasn't because the Slytherin had been moving in on his best friend's girlfriend, was it?_

Remus scratched Bête Noire's head. "I could tell you a dozen _why's_—and both Sirius and Severus would tell you the other chap started it. But it all depends on how far back you look for answers, doesn't it?"

Harry nodded. Tonight he was willing to go as far back as it took.

* * *

**Hello!** Please review. Even a brief note is much appreciated. (And it's never ever spam.)


	34. Rivals

_**Chapter 34**_

**RIVALS**

Harry thought of himself and Draco Malfoy. Why had he disliked the other boy the first time they'd met at Madame Malkin's Robes for all Occasions? His future enemy had tried to make his acquaintance, had tried to draw him into his snobbish inner circle. But inexplicable parallels he'd seen between the sophisticated Malfoy and his anything-but-sophisticated cousin Dudley had made him wary. And Malfoy's disparaging remarks about Hagrid had clinched Harry's dislike. Why did he hate Malfoy? Now there were a host of reasons.

"I think we were all, Gryffindors and Slytherins, disposed to be suspicious of each other from the moment the Sorting Hat sent us to our separate tables. And from our first Potions class, we Gryffindors learned that Severus had a wicked tongue. The next year, the rivalry moved to the Quidditch field. Severus became a chaser for the Slytherin team, as your father did for Gryffindor. Sirius was a beater. During the Gryffindor-Slytherin match, when a bludger knocked Severus off his broom, he accused Sirius of trying to kill him with it. Severus never played Quidditch after that year, but he pursued the enmity in other ways."

Harry nodded. "Professor Dumbledore showed me a photograph. Severus and Sirius ended a marathon chess match in a draw."

Remus chuckled. "A memorable three days. Severus was the better player technically—complex stratagems and crafty traps. But he didn't like to leave anything to chance. His compulsion to retain control was his weakness. It kept him from taking risks. Sirius was an innovative, aggressive, even reckless player—charging ahead to take as many prisoners as possible. When Hogwarts decides to hold a chess tournament, the rules require a two-game advantage to account for who has the first move. Game after game, they kept pulling even or ending in a stalemate."

When Remus finished his story, Harry waited for him to launch into another. Instead, his old teacher paused, eyeing his former student speculatively over the rim of his mug.

Harry had seen that look several times over the last few weeks—the keen stare of an adult assessing whether little Harry had matured enough to be privy to certain secrets. He smiled and sipped his mulled cider, feeling more and more relaxed as its warmth percolated through him. Lately, everyone had judged him worthy of their confidences.

At last, Remus cleared his throat. "But what really got them hating each other was a girl—"

Harry nearly choked. Hastily, he set down his mug and covered his mouth to hide his spluttering.

"—named Florence."

"_Florence_?" Harry mumbled through his fingers. He recalled hearing that name from Bertha Jorkins's mouth in Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve the spring before.

"Yes. A stunning little Italian witch who'd been sorted into Gryffindor the year after us. Florence liked the _bad boy_ type. That's the image Sirius liked to project with his leather jackets and dark glasses. For a while, everyone thought of them as an item. But if Sirius was _bad_, Severus was _badder_."

"You're telling me some girl threw Sirius over for _Snape_?" Harry stared at Remus. "Surely, there was something unnatural involved. Some love potion, some Imperius Spell, something."

Remus burst out laughing. Perturbed, Bête Noire jumped off his lap and strutted back to Neville's bed. "Oh, Harry. Don't imagine that everyone finds big noses unappealing—at least on a man."

"So _that's_ what caused all the hatred? A _girl_?"

"Well, it was the _way_ Sirius found out about it—courtesy of Bertha Jorkins, a disagreeable, gossiping creature. When she came into supper one evening with her nose the size of a sausage, she told anyone who would listen how it had happened. Severus had cursed her nosiness for spying on him and Florence."

Harry let out a low whistle. That was basically the story he'd heard from the Pensieve—though he never would have guessed that the _he_ involved had been Snape.

"The infraction of PDA wasn't even _in_ the school manual until that incident. The Muggle Studies master, a visiting professor from Salem, Massachusetts, suggested it. Severus ended up with detention for both that _and_ the hex—scrubbing every square inch of the floor in the Great Hall. But it was really Sirius who was brought to his hands and knees. That night in the Gryffindor common room, he took Florence to task for being disloyal to the house. She shot back that the only reason she'd hung around him in the first place was to attract Severus's attention. She shamed Sirius in front of everyone. That _really_ stung."

Harry sucked in his breath sharply. "So _that's_ the real story behind the Whomping Willow incident."

"A big part of it, certainly." Remus returned a crooked smile. "I know Sirius never intended to kill Severus—just scare him into making a fool of himself. But he miscalculated. If James hadn't dragged Severus out of that tunnel . . . ."

Seeing a troubled frown settle on his friend's face, Harry didn't ask any more questions. With a sigh, Remus moved on to lighter tales—memorable Quidditch matches, misplaced spells, midnight revels catered by kitchen elves. An hour later, after a dozen escapades of the Marauders had left Harry with a bittersweet smile, Remus insisted on _goodnight_.

With a pan of glowing coals from the fireplace, Harry warmed his bed and Neville's bed where Remus was bunking. When he snuggled under his covers, he told himself, _Give your worries a rest. None of the stories connected Snape with your mother_. With that reassurance, he drifted into a dream of flying.

* * *

Wednesday morning, Harry awoke before dawn with a troubled frown. Snape had seduced Florence away from Sirius. What better way to best a rival? Could Snape have tried to lure Lily from James for the same reason? At that thought, Harry went cold all over—despite the blankets and comforter piled on top of him. Surely, his mother had never been attracted to _bad boys_, unless it had been out of pity. The incriminating vignette from her sketchbook rose in his mind. Just as rapidly, he banished it.

Stealthily, so as not to wake the gently snoring Remus and the big black cat stretched out at his feet, Harry retrieved his Firebolt from his trunk, muffled himself up in scarves and wool cap, and crept downstairs, determined to pour himself into Quidditch practice. Soaring above the towering stands and goal hoops should put his worries in perspective, he thought. Yet every turn he took through the sleeping castle, every alcove he passed, raised anxious speculations: _Did Severus and Lily hide behind that curtain? Did they meet secretly in that room? Did they walk this corridor, their fingers just brushing as they passed?_

Harry remained lost in gloomy thought until a wail jerked his mind back to the present. _Myrtle_. Her moaning reminded him that he'd never _made it up to her_ for the night he'd sent her weeping down the toilet. At least a month had passed, yet still she sounded heartbroken. But when the ghost pressed her pearlescent face through her lavatory door, her eyes were tearless and her nose was raised snootily in the air.

"_Not by four and never by two_—you _don't_ know what it means do you?"

Biting back a groan, Harry forced a tone of interest into his voice. "No. I have to admit, I don't."

"You _told_ me you did. Just to make me go away. 'Scram! Skedaddle, you tiresome thing! Nobody wants you around.'"

Harry took a deep breath. "That's not true. It was just—"

Myrtle sniffed. Then she began to sing:

_Not by four and not by two_  
_Just a clue to make you ask_  
_What can Myrtle do for you?_  
_Hint at who's behind the mask._

"I made that one up myself," she added.

"And a very nice rune it is." As the words left Harry's mouth, his stomach clenched. Three fat beetles were crawling across the door, just visible in the glow of Myrtle's face. In fact, they appeared to be scuttling around her incorporeal forehead.

"I bet you'd like to know what that rune means."

Harry gripped his broom, trying not to be ill. "You're right. I would. I really, really would."

"Well!" A rare smile curved Myrtle's colorless lips. "I'm not going to tell you!" With that, she pulled her face back through the door, plunging the corridor into darkness once more.

With a shiver, Harry hurried onward, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and the creepy-crawly things hanging around Myrtle's haunt.

* * *

As frantic as Harry had felt the morning before to unlock the secret of Lily and Severus, today he wanted to block out the whole affair. He skipped breakfast, diving and wheeling on his broom until he was dizzy. He coached some first-year Gryffindors on how to charge and feint on brooms. After lunch, he ran Waldo through his paces. Then he saw Hagrid off on his trip to the Carpathian Mountains to see his Mum at Christmas. Back in his dorm, he finished wrapping gifts. For two hours, he pondered the cryptic words of Cho's _Seven Tablets in a Cloudy Satchel_. Needing another distraction, he started on the task Hermione was always nagging him to do—organize his old class notes into _a handy reference_. (_After all, we'll be taking our Ordinary Wizarding Levels come springtime._) By five, he'd created six neat piles on Dean Thomas's bed. With close to an hour left until supper, he found himself wandering the castle, searching for something else to occupy his mind.

When Harry saw Dobby ambling toward him, he grinned. Then the sight of his little friend reminded him of the last time he'd seen him and his humble bow before Draco Malfoy. That memory led inexorably to the elf's odd disclosures and the subject Harry had been avoiding since dawn—Severus Snape.

"Hello, Master Harry." Dobby stopped a foot away, gazing up expectantly.

As Harry returned the greeting, he had the disquieting impression that the elf knew he had questions for him. Furtively, he glanced up and down the hall. Then he pulled his friend around a carved screen into an alcove hidden at the side.

"Dobby . . . if I asked you a question about your old master, would you answer it? Not so much about him, but about someone who worked for him?"

"If Dobby can, Dobby will. Anything to help—"

"Yes, er, my question is about Snape—Professor Snape. When he worked for Lucius Malfoy, did he ever drop by the house?"

"Professor Severus!" Dobby beamed. "The proficient, prodigious, profound Professor Severus. He didn't drop _by_ the Malfoys. He lived _with_ the Malfoys—until the time he went to work for, nay—_spy_ on that other one, He-Who—"

"—Must-Not-Be-Named. Yes." Harry coughed, wary of going on. As a house elf, Dobby would have been witness to Snape's secrets—including any surreptitious visitors. "While you served the Malfoys, did the professor ever see any . . . women?"

The elf's face contorted, and he slapped his forehead. "Dobby knew it! He let the secret slip! Too many words at the Yule Ball. Oh, foolish, loose-lipped Dobby!"

_The secret_. Harry was too busy controlling the lurching in his stomach to stop Dobby from ramming his head against the granite wall, but he grabbed him before he could do it again.

"Mr. Malfoy," the elf muttered, "may he writhe and squirm. Betray _him_, Dobby doesn't mind. But Mr. Severus, Mistress Narcissa! Forgive Dobby his careless words!"

"_Narcissa_?" Harry breathed, letting his grip go slack.

Dobby whirled back around, his saucer eyes twice the size they were before. "You _didn't_ know? Not until now? Not until Dobby opened his big yap yet _again_?"

"So . . . Snape was involved with _Narcissa._" Before the elf could bite his own fingers, Harry seized him again and held him fast. "When you saw Draco at the Ball you said, 'Too bad Professor Severus wasn't his father.'" He paused, his brain whirring. "Or did you say, 'Too bad Professor Severus _wasn't_ his father'?"

His friend twitched.

Harry's mouth became an _O_. "No. Don't tell me. There was a time when Snape thought Draco might be _his_ son."

Sensing his friend had lost his fight, Harry let him go. Resolutely, the elf stared up at him. "Dobby can assure you, they did _not_ become involved while Mr. Severus lived with the Malfoys—except, maybe, for their eyes. But when he left to work for that other one, he visited often—to see Mr. Malfoy. To _spy_ on Mr. Malfoy. When Mistress Narcissa divined his secret, she didn't turn him in—she turned _to_ him."

The scene Harry had witnessed from atop the marble dragon reverberated in his mind. How blind he'd been not to perceive the special relationship those two had shared.

"When Master Draco was born, Mistress Narcissa told Mr. Severus the lad was his. She made him godfather—an excuse to visit the baby. They pledged to run away together—as soon as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was pulled down."

Harry frowned. "But Draco is _not_ Snape's son—anyone can see that."

"Now, yes. When he was newborn, who could tell? But finally, Mr. Severus grew doubtful. He tried Identity Potion. Then he knew Mistress Narcissa had been lying to him—for she had the second sight to know her son's father." The elf clasped his hands. "That night, Harry Potter toppled the Dark Lord! The next morning, Mr. Malfoy cried _Imperius curse_! Mr. Severus told Mistress Narcissa her husband spoke the truth. He would not take her away from him."

Harry recalled Snape's surprise the year before when he'd revealed Lucius Malfoy was back with the Death Eaters. "Why did he believe Mr. Malfoy when he didn't believe Mr. Avery? Guilty conscience?"

"Dobby wondered too. Poor Mistress Narcissa!" His eyes lit up. "But after he—he the gifted, the glorious, the grand Potions master—after he liberated Winky—"

Harry couldn't extricate himself from his little friend's gushing adulation of Snape for another ten minutes.

* * *

That evening, Harry skipped supper in the Great Hall. Dobby had given him so much to digest, that instead he begged a sandwich from the kitchen and holed up in Gryffindor. An hour later, Winky's generous ham-and-everything-else creation sat half-eaten as Harry stared out his dormitory window. He had assumed his nemesis too unattractive for romance before the kind-hearted Ariel Daine took pity on him. Now, he knew of _two_ women who had each schemed to call him her own.

Where did his mother fit into the twisted story of Severus Snape's life?

* * *

**After Book 4 and before Book 5**, this all seemed like reasonable backstory. Please review.


	35. Distractions

_**Chapter 35**_

**DISTRACTIONS**

By the same hour Thursday, that question of what part his mother had played in Severus Snape's life was still disturbing Harry's brain. Once again, Remus was coming late. Sirius wasn't expected until tomorrow. Desperate for something to occupy his attention, Harry dug into his bureau drawer for the Djinn ball. When he unwrapped it and smoothed out the paper, the squeaky voice grumbled, "About time. Did it really take you four days to absorb Lesson One?"

"I was busy."

As before, his instructor started by clearing his non-existent throat. "Lesson Two: Television of Familiar Locations at a Distance. Hold the Djinn ball to the bridge of your nose, stare into its depths, and envision your distant home—what _are_ you doing?"

Harry had lowered the ball to bounce it up and down on his palm. He wanted a diversion, yes—but peeking in on his aunt fattening Dudley with Christmas sweets while his uncle tried to cram forty or so presents beneath the tree wasn't his idea of a pleasant evening. "Couldn't I try a friend's home instead?"

"As you like," the paper snapped. "Don't interrupt with the obvious."

Dutifully, Harry placed the ball between his eyes. As he concentrated, the cloudy shapes within coalesced into the warm colors of Mrs. Weasley's kitchen. His best friend's mother was bustling between cooker and cupboard. "I have it somewhere—essence of _Joy to the World_."

Mrs. Doctor Granger, sipping tea at the table, returned an ironic smile. "Personally, I just add nutmeg to pumpkin pie—unless I buy it readymade."

"Readymade?" Mrs. Weasley turned to gaze at her friend with _What-will-Muggles-think-of-next_ bemusement until a whoosh from the cooker made her spin back around. The multi-colored fire, obviously magical in origin, had decided to act up. Frantically, she waved her wand, trying to command the leaping flames to retreat back under the boiling pot of pumpkin wedges.

Her _magically challenged_ friend leapt to her feet. "Do you have a fire extinguisher? Baking soda? Anything?" She pushed in beside her panicking friend. "Goodness! You can't even turn this thing down. It doesn't have any knobs."

Before Harry could shout out his own suggestions for quelling the blaze, Mr. Weasley raced into the room. Flourishing his wand, he shouted, "Back!" and the fire shrank to a manageable size. Mrs. Weasley's alarm melted into a smile, and she kissed her husband. Their friend glanced from one to the other of them with frank exasperation.

Harry exhaled in relief. Then he wondered, _Where are Ron and Hermione?_ Using the mobility skills he'd learned in Lesson One, he set out to explore the Burrow.

Mr. Doctor Granger strolled around the living room, examining magical artifacts—animated paintings, fidgeting chess pieces, a clock displaying thirteen hours. He kept his arms folded behind his back, as though afraid of touching anything.

In the den, Ginny sat cross-legged on the window seat with her silver-furred fox Vixie curled up at her feet. She was whispering to herself. "Bevel? Revel? Level? Dishevel?" Giggling, she dipped her quill in a bottle of ink and added another line to the poem on her parchment, murmuring, "Handsome devil."

Halfway up the stairs, Harry was happy to see Errol—the Weasley's ancient owl—still alive, snoozing atop a bronze statue that looked rather like Bigfoot. Pigwidgin fluttered about him, addled as usual.

In the upstairs hallway, Fred and George were trying out a new wizard invention. The ball they tossed back and forth looked like an ordinary tennis ball, except that whoever caught it underwent a skin change. Harry watched a blue Fred throw it to a lavender George who, on contact, turned red-green-and-yellow plaid.

Harry edged past them unnoticed and pushed the point-of-view of the Djinn ball through Ron's closed door.

His friend's bedroom was still overwhelmingly Chudley Cannon orange. Of course, his visits home were so brief, he didn't have much time for redecorating. In fact, Ron was hunkered down at his desk, putting quill to parchment—evidently spending part of his vacation on homework. For once, it was Hermione who was loafing on the bed. Harry longed to be sharing the evening with them, but neither gave any sign of sensing he was there. Crookshanks, however, disengaged himself from his mistress's idly tickling fingers to stare at Harry with his yellow cats' eyes.

A minute later, flourishing his quill, Ron announced, "_The End_. Finally! Old McGonagall's going to love my alternate universe essay—if I do say so myself. She said she's basing twenty percent of our score on how creative it is."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Not if the essay is _purely_ a creation. Mind giving me a look?"

"I've been dying for you to ask." Grinning, Ron handed her the parchment.

Just when Harry was trying to figure out what maneuvers would place his view directly over his friend's paper, Hermione shrieked. "You daft prat! Have you gone completely balmy?"

Ron burst out laughing. A moment later he was dodging Hermione's attempts to whack him with his rolled up essay.

Harry groaned. Now he'd never get to see what it said.

"H-hey," Ron sniggered. "It's j-j-just an-an _alternate_ u-u-universe!"

"If you don't promise to burn this," Hermione growled, "I'm going to _kick_ you into an alternate universe."

At Hermione's ultimatum, Ron suddenly went serious. "You can't mean that. I spent weeks on research. That's my third draft. It's the best essay I've ever written. You couldn't possibly expect me to _burn_ it. Please say you don't mean it."

Hermione blew out her breath. "Well, maybe not the _whole_ essay. Just this part where you . . ." She shuddered. "This part where you have me venerating—no, fawning, palpitating, drooling over—" she shook her head violently, as if to rid it of a disgusting image "—Gilderoy Lockhart."

Harry could see Ron suppressing a grin. "An alternate universe."

Again, Hermione raised the scroll, and Ron retreated a pace. With great dignity, she managed, "I would _never_ admire such an obvious, self-seeking, primping fraud. Anybody who knows me would know that's _completely_ out of character. I am an intelligent, discerning being. My being duped by that dope would never have happened."

Ron spread his hands wide as if that proved his point. "That's why the idea makes such a good example—because it emphasizes how different—"

"Never. I repeat, _never_. Not in this universe. Not in _any_ universe."

Ron folded his arms while a superior smile rose to his face. "Not according to Dr. Chronosticon. _The Perpetual Moment_ maintains that the infinity of possible choices makes possible an infinity of possible actions—even one as hard to believe as—" he choked back another snicker "—as you admiring Gilderoy Lockhart."

At Ron's appeal to intellectual authority, Hermione looked slightly abashed. "Dr. Chronosticon? I—I don't think I've ever read him."

"Her," Ron corrected. "And why should you have? Your paper was on trans-sequential, temporal-spatial shifts. Even with Elixir of Infinite Memory, it'd be impossible to know _every_ magical text ever written."

Hermione tilted her head. "You read my paper?"

"I couldn't put it down." Ron looked aside, suddenly bashful. "I like your mind."

The parchment on alternate universes fluttered from Hermione's hand. Harry's eyes widened. The PDA that in his heart of hearts he wished his friends all the luck in the world in pursuing was about to take place.

It would definitely be a moment he didn't want to share.

He was about to wink himself out of Djinn Ball Lesson Two when he heard a knock at Ron's door. Two seconds later, Ron was again hunched over a textbook at his desk and Hermione was standing on the opposite side of the room, avidly inspecting a full-length picture of the Chudley Cannon goalkeeper flexing his muscles.

In a slightly breathless voice, Ron called out, "Come in." His face was flaming.

The door inched open, and Hermione's mother peaked around the side. She glanced from her daughter to her daughter's friend and swallowed hard. "Er, Ron—your mum wants you to come help her. Something about wrestling another pumpkin away from the garden gnomes?"

Ron jumped to his feet, his cheeks still red. With a mumbled, "Yes, ma'am," he dashed from the room.

Hermione remained with her back to her mother, peering at the fine print at the bottom of the poster. Harry was about to use the Djinn ball to follow Ron, when something in Dr. Granger's eyes as she shut the door made him decide to stay.

"Anything going on here I should know about?"

Hermione grimaced, then turned with a pleasant smile. "No, mother. Why—"

"It's not that I don't like Ron. He's a dear, dear boy. And the Weasleys—they're all so sweet and charming, I'd never say a word against them. But darling . . . it's just that I don't want you to do something that you might consider, well, irrevocable."

"Mother! Nothing happened!"

"I mean, irrevocable as far as which world you're going to choose." Mrs. Doctor Granger glanced behind her at a life-sized poster of the Chudley Cannon seeker sticking out his tongue. At her stern look, he jerked it back and pretended to whistle.

"Mummy." Hermione took a deep breath. "You're just disconcerted by how different the magical world is."

"You mean, how whimsical, unexpected, and astonishing all these magical gewgaws and gizmos are?"

Hermione frowned. "Well, yes."

Her mother shook her head. "No, I'm just disconcerted to find out that whimsical, unexpected, and astonishing is all this world seems to be."

Harry bit his lip. What did Hermione's mother mean?

"I mean," the older woman said slowly, "It's all very nice for a weekend's amusement. But is it enough for a _life_? I'm not convinced that all of this hocus pocus, mumbo jumbo, bells and whistles, glitter and flash is right for you."

Hermione ducked her head slightly, looking defensive before her mother.

Mrs. Doctor Granger raised her chin, reminding Harry of none other than Hermione when she'd found a cause. "From what you've told me, it's not only twentieth century technology that's lacking—it's twentieth century social progress, as well. Take that Azkaban Prison—it sounds absolutely barbaric, even for someone justly convicted of a crime. And you told me they sent that nice Mr. Hagrid there merely on suspicion!"

"Well, yes, but—"

"And those poor gnomes! When I heard Molly say she wanted Ron to come down and toss them out of the yard, I was shocked to learn she meant it literally. I'm just grateful the Weasleys don't have an elf. From what you've said, I doubt I could stand it."

"Mother, Mother," Hermione tried plaintively. "That's _why_ I need to pursue this life. I feel it's my mission to bring about some change."

"As a woman? Among wizards?" Mrs. Doctor Granger arched an eyebrow. "Not likely. From what I've seen, unless you're a hag or a biddy, a witch's place is in the home. What kind of life would that be for you? Now that all of Molly's children are grown or away at school nine months out of the year, she has practically nothing to do—except knit! Yet she's so brainwashed about the rightness of this status quo that whenever Arthur mentions one of the few women employed in his office, she clucks her tongue, '_Has_ to work, poor dear. She never got married.'"

"Well, maybe that's true for the Ministry. But at Hogwarts—"

"You have some respected female professors? I know that, darling. And every one of them that old cliché—the liberated, independent, highly accomplished old maid!"

At that pronouncement, both Grangers fell silent. Harry stared from one to the other, feeling disconcerted. Was this how his mother had found the magical world? But just as Hermione was clearing her throat for a rebuttal, Harry heard a key in his dormitory lock. When his concentration broke, so did his connection to the Burrow. He secreted the Djinn ball back in his bureau and waited for Remus to open the door.

* * *

Friday, the morning before Christmas, Harry awoke to find the landscape outside his window swirling white. Remus still snored on Seamus's bed, Bête Noire sacked out across his legs. Harry sighed. The night before, he'd once again lacked the courage to open up his mother's drawings to her schoolmate's comments. Pressing his hands together, he vowed to do it tonight when Sirius came. No matter how upsetting, he had to learn the secret of Lily Evans and Severus Snape.

* * *

**Yes, I just had to do it...** stick up for us Muggles. To all you very nice people who've reviewed, followed and/or faved, my heartfelt thanks.


	36. Revelations

_**Chapter 36**_

**REVELATIONS**

Friday, Christmas Eve, Harry sat cross-legged on his dormitory rug, staring at the fireplace, willing Sirius to appear. Being stormbound all day, he'd had no chance for a quick spin around the Quidditch field or last minute shopping in Hogsmeade to speed up the time. Cho's book, an inkpot, stubbed quills, and a parchment marred by his rude attempts at transcribing Chinese spells lay strewn about him—his final stab at keeping his mind off his anxieties. Now that his godfather's arrival was imminent, he'd abandoned all pretense of interest in anything but answering his questions. He clasped his mother's sketchbook and waited.

Suddenly, the fire flared green and white. Sparks exploded from the center, shooting past the hearth and skittering across the flagstone floor. With an ominous rumble, the fire blazed purple. Slowly, a wizard in dark, swirling robes formed in its midst. But when the man stepped forward, Harry saw not his godfather Sirius Black but his nemesis, Severus Snape. And in his hand, gleamed a long, silver knife.

The dark eyes swept the untidy, fifth-year Gryffindor boys' dorm with distaste. When the disgruntled gaze centered on the room's one occupant, Harry jumped to his feet—at the same time hiding his mother's sketchbook behind his back. "Uh, sir?"

Snape gazed at him so steadily that Harry had the unreasonable fear that the professor might have Mad-Eye Moody's talent of seeing behind solid objects. But even a six-inch blade wouldn't make him give up his mother's pictures to the man who figured so disturbingly in them.

Just when Harry thought he'd never breathe again, the professor finally murmured, "Black is tardy. I should have expected it of him."

"Er, yes, sir. Tardy. But coming any moment now. Uh, sit down." He motioned with his chin to the least shabby of the room's chairs, not daring to move his hands from behind him.

Snape remained standing, his eyes narrowing as Harry backed towards his bed. "Potter. I may not be the master of this house, but I am a master of this school. As such, it's my duty to seize contraband wherever I find it."

Every muscle in Harry's body tightened as if he were clutching shock laurel. "Contraband? I have no contraband."

Snape's black eyes became utterly piercing. His knife glinted. "Behind your back. Hand over this instant whatever it is you're hiding behind your back."

Again, the fireplace seemed to erupt. Snape whirled around. Harry stared a moment at the yellow and orange flames dancing around two slowly emerging figures before he had the presence of mind to shoot his mother's sketchbook to the top of his wardrobe. Obligingly, Bête Noire draped himself over it. Harry turned back to see Remus and Sirius stroll into the room, engrossed in updating each other on what had happened since they'd last met.

Perturbed, Snape folded his arms in his sleeves and retreated to the opposite side of the room. When Sirius finally noticed, his browned, weather-beaten face mirrored the dislike on his long-time rival's pallid one. Glancing from one to the other, Remus rolled his eyes. Delighted to see his godfather at last, Harry sprang forward to hug him.

At once, Sirius's scowl became a grin. He hoisted Harry up under the armpits. "You've grown!" Then he panted from a mock backache. "My, how you've grown!"

When Harry at last drew back for a face-to-face inspection, he wished he could give Sirius the same reply he'd given Remus the Sunday before. But his godfather looked anything but healthy and wealthy. Unbelievably, he looked thinner and more ragged than when they'd last met. Harry was still examining him with concern, searching for something hopeful to say, when Snape's sarcastic whisper broke the silence.

"Don't let me impose on this tender reunion. When I get what I came for, I can be on my way."

Harry saw Sirius's jaw stiffen beneath his scraggly beard. "By all means." He stood his ground as his schoolboy enemy advanced on him.

Without warning, the knife flashed. Before Harry could even gasp, Snape held aloft a hank of black and gray hair. Curling his lip as if to block a rancid smell, the Potions master dropped the specimen into a leather pouch. He smiled at Sirius's consternation. "You _do_ want a way back, don't you?" With that, he tossed a handful of glittering floo powder into the fire and strode after it.

When Snape was truly gone, Sirius growled, "I don't trust him."

"Don't be foolish," Remus answered. "He's your best hope."

A warning look from his old teacher kept Harry from asking just what that hope might be. Instead, he relieved his godfather of his meager backpack, fetched a basin of hot water to soak his callused feet, and trundled over a teacart of Christmas Eve goodies. Not until he'd heard every detail of Sirius's last months on the run did Harry finally bring himself to say, "By the way, I recently got hold of something you two might enjoy—a sketchbook of my mother's."

"Lily's drawings? That's marvelous." Remus leaned back, clearly ready to stay up another hour.

"I'd feared her pictures had all been lost." Sirius smiled. "Well, where are they?"

Harry twisted up out of his chair so his friends wouldn't see his grin turning to apprehension. His body felt numb as he pointed his wand at his wardrobe. With a doubtful mew, Bête Noire moved aside to let the volume whisk from under him. Swallowing hard, Harry caught the precious, dangerous book. Unable to trust his shaking hands, he passed it to his friends. He remained standing while Remus and Sirius thumbed through the pages, fondly reminiscing over the sketches. When at last they reached the fateful drawing, Harry saw their smiles freeze.

In an unnaturally calm voice, he managed, "That's Snape, isn't it?"

The two men stiffened. Then Sirius shot him a forced smile. "I believe it is."

Remus swept a hand across his forehead. "Harry. I know what it looks like. But you have to know—"

"Moony!" Sirius exclaimed. "Don't! It's not our secret to—"

"It's no secret," Harry blurted out. "I know. Already. You don't have to—"

"You _know_?" Sirius asked, obviously relieved. "So Albus finally told you?"

Remus sighed. "That's a load off."

"Of course, I know." Harry smiled weakly. "They were . . . close." His heart began to pound as he grasped at one last, desperate denial. "But she didn't _love_ him. I know _that_ much." _My mother would never have deceived my father_.

Sirius cocked his head, peering curiously at Harry. "If you know the truth, then you've got to know that Lily _did_ love Severus. I hate to admit it, but from what I heard, she was devoted to him."

_Devoted_? Staring into Sirius's matter-of-fact black eyes, then Remus's puzzled brown ones, Harry felt his whole world shattering. His mother had loved someone not his father? In short, betrayed him with another man? And that man had been Severus Snape? Impossible. Unthinkable. But how could he contradict her friends' _We-were-there_ authority? As these conclusions spun through Harry's brain, dizziness washed over him, and he collapsed into his chair.

Remus's face grew bewildered. "Harry, what's the matter? All Sirius said was that Lily loved Severus."

Sirius leaned forward to shake Harry's shoulders. "Snap out of it. Of course, Lily loved Severus. How else would you expect her to feel toward her brother?"

* * *

**Comments?**


	37. Family

_**Chapter 37**_

**FAMILY**

"Her _brother_?"

"Of course," Sirius answered Harry. "We thought that's what _you_ were talking about."

"Her brother!" Harry pulled a reviving draught of air deep into his lungs. "Oh, thank goodness. He was her brother. Her _brother_?" He narrowed his eyes skeptically, wanting to be certain all objections were answered before he accepted this new story. "But they were in the same year at Hogwarts. There'd have to be an age difference for him to be her brother."

"Not if he was her twin." At Harry's stunned stare, Remus smiled. "From different eggs, of course, and as different as noon and midnight, but twins nonetheless."

"Twins? As close as that?" Harry pressed his hands to his forehead, waiting for this shock to pass. "But Snape was adopted. That would mean—"

"Your mother was adopted, too."

When that implication sank in, Harry gleefully slapped his thigh. "Adopted! Then Petunia wasn't her blood sister, and the Dursleys aren't my blood relations!" _Such secrecy_, he thought. Somehow, he didn't believe his aunt and uncle knew. Surely, they'd never have carried out their duty—even to the grudging, mean-spirited extent they did—if they'd known he wasn't their natural nephew.

Sirius raised a scraggly eyebrow. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic. I'd been worrying I'd have to warn my future bride that Dudley genes might be lying dormant in me, waiting to rear their ugly heads."

Sirius shrugged. "Actually, you don't know _what_ genes might be lurking inside you—unless you can talk Professor Dumbledore into revealing your grandparents."

"I can't think of anything worse than Dudley genes, except . . . ." Harry's grin faded. "Snape genes. Ouch. You're telling me he's my _uncle_."

Remus laughed. "Don't be so hard on the poor man. He's brilliant, articulate, dedicated, scrupulous, and one of the most ingenious Potions masters in the world today."

"And testy, insensitive, and inflexible," Harry added. "And he has a honking big nose."

Sirius burst out laughing. Remus rolled his eyes.

"Twins," Harry said slowly, "separated at birth. That explains so much . . . yet it's so hard to believe. It's like something from one of Aunt Petunia's daytime serials."

"Or Shakespeare," Remus said. "Unusual, granted. But unheard of? No. Most of the _nurture versus nature_ studies Muggle psychologists do are based on the fact that orphaned twins are separated at birth far too often."

Harry cocked his head, sending his glasses askew. "Nurture versus nature?"

"Environment versus heredity," Remus explained. "How you're brought up versus what you're born with."

"Don't worry," Sirius assured him. "Anyone who knew your mother knows she shared no genes with her twin whatsoever." He peered down at his foot basin, then pulled out his wand to zap the water. When it resumed steaming, he exhaled in contentment.

Harry pushed his glasses back into place. "How long have you two known?" _And why did no one ever tell me_?

"Just since spring," Sirius said. "Remus suggested that Snape make me a special potion. As if I'd willingly drink _his_ brew! It took hearing that secret to make me agree."

From his godfather's scowl, Harry wasn't convinced Sirius fully trusted Snape now. When he glanced at Remus, his ex-teacher smiled.

"Toward the end of our seventh year, I chanced across them one afternoon near the Confessing Conifer—hugging."

Harry whistled. _A brotherly-sisterly hug_. That he could accept. But he could imagine what it had looked like.

"Severus refused to explain anything," Remus went on. "Lily was afraid I'd pass on what I'd seen to your father, so she confessed."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "You mean my _father_ didn't know?"

"Not until that night. Lily couldn't very well reveal her secret to me and keep it from James."

_I should hope not_, Harry thought. _But why was everything so hush-hush_?

Sirius wiggled his toes in the hot water. "Back then, if someone had seen fit to explain to _me_ that Snape was being a meddling pain in the rear out of some exaggerated notion of _Big Brother is Watching_, I'd have ignored the misguided bugger. Our last term at Hogwarts, everywhere we turned, there that sly sneak was—sticking his big, oily nose into everything."

"He was trying to discredit James," Remus explained, "get him kicked out of Hogwarts. He wanted to turn Lily against him. He nearly succeeded."

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Sirius wince. Then abruptly, he jerked his feet out of the water, busily dried them, and lugged the basin into the lavatory. Harry peered after him, wondering what his godfather was avoiding telling him now.

Sirius returned looking sheepish. "It was no big deal. A little tomfoolery."

"You must admit," Remus said, "she was pretty ticked off."

Harry glanced from one to the other of his parents' old friends. "Come on. No more secrets."

Sirius sighed. "You have to understand, it all began quite innocently. I had an assignment for Esoteric Geometry. I asked Lily to help."

"Your mother was awfully talented at spells," Remus put in, "whether spoken charms or runes on paper." He pointed at the sketchbook. "You saw how lively she made her drawings."

"And?" Harry prodded.

Sirius blew out his breath. "I'd drafted a floor plan of Hogwarts. I asked Lily to show me how to add symbols that could stand for people."

"The Marauder's Map!" Harry exclaimed.

Remus nodded. "That's what it became, of course. Lily's skill was amazing. Not only could the map show people, it could limit itself to the ones you wanted to see—so you didn't have to bother with the hundreds actually in the castle. And it would stay set until the next time the same user picked it up."

"So!" Harry said. "That's why you saw Peter on the map, while Ron and I never had." It evidently only showed _normal time_ people—because Remus had only seen Hermione and him sneaking across the lawn, not their _turn-back-the-time_ selves waiting to rescue Buckbeak and Sirius.

"That map was a thing of beauty, all right," Sirius said.

"But it nearly broke my parents up?"

His godfather grunted. "After that snoop Snape caught a glimpse of it and tattled to Lily, yes. When she realized it was helping us—uh—tiptoe past Filch, she became a bit perturbed. I told her to blame me, but she held the rest of the gang accountable anyway—"

"After all," Remus said. 'We'd each taken advantage of it."

"—So she told James she was through."

Harry cupped his hand over his mouth. _Wow_. How close had he come to never being born? "But they got back together. They couldn't help it."

Under his breath so that Harry barely caught the words, Remus murmured, "_If he hadn't cried wolf_ . . . ."

Sirius leaned forward to look Harry in the eye. "You have to appreciate how _angry_ I was. That nosy Slytherin had already caused us enough problems. Now he'd wrecked my best friend's romance as well."

_After he'd already wrecked your own with Florence_, Harry thought.

"I _had_ to get even—teach that greasy little spook the dangers of spying."

"With the Whomping Willow," Harry said, "and the Shrieking Shack."

Sirius nodded, looking chagrined. "I swear—neither James nor Remus knew anything about it. I thought I had everything in hand, that Padfoot would be there to keep that Slytherin creep from any real danger."

"But he wasn't," Remus said. "And by the time Severus started down the secret passage under the Whomping Willow, I was no longer . . . completely myself."

"We nearly had a bit of a mess, all right." Sirius spread his hands wide. "But it all worked out. It was that trick of mine that got your mother to make up with your father."

Harry let out a little whistle. "When he saved her brother's life."

"Yes." Remus sent him a lopsided smile. "And none of the petty pranks us Marauders ever played on Severus made him hate James so much as that."

Harry released his breath slowly. So Dumbledore _had_ told him the truth when he'd said Snape hated his father for saving his life—though the headmaster had held back the full explanation. Snape had hated James for winning back Lily.

Sinking his chin to his palms, Harry stared into the smoldering fire. Tonight, he'd learned more truths about Snape and his mother than he had in a month of anxious speculation. And that knowledge had raised new questions just as baffling. He recalled Snape's face in the wizard photo of his father's final Quidditch match—seething when he glanced at James, desolate when he gazed at Lily. _Why_ had he been so desperate to wrest his sister from her sweetheart? Why had his failure left him with such a look of despair?

"I don't get it," he murmured. "_Why_ was Snape so down on my father? Just because he wasn't a Slytherin? Just because he was better at Quidditch? Just because he had more friends?"

Sirius gave an elaborate shrug, but not before Harry saw him shoot Remus a warning glance. "Who can explain these things?" his godfather said with studied nonchalance. "Who knows how these bad feelings begin?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You've told me a lot, but you're hiding even more. Why all the secrecy? I swear, even my Aunt Petunia doesn't know her sister was adopted. And why did nobody ever let _me_ in on all this before?"

"Well—" Remus began.

"Moony!" Sirius's tone was sharp. "This time, no. It's not for us to tell him."

Remus looked askance at his old friend. "I _wasn't_. What I _was_ going to say is that the only one who can is Albus Dumbledore."

Frustration surged through Harry, constricting his muscles and pushing him to his feet. "No! This isn't fair! You two _have_ to tell me."

But they didn't. And no amount of pleading, badgering, grumbling, and fuming would change their minds.

"Give it a rest, Harry," Remus said at last. "It's up to Albus—to tell you when he thinks the moment right."

Leaning forward, Sirius patted Harry's shoulder. "All in good time. But I understand how you feel. I used to be rather impatient myself. Twelve years in Azkaban taught me how to wait."

With a sigh, Harry nodded. He'd be patient. Until tomorrow. Christmas night, after all the celebrating was over, he'd _make_ Professor Dumbledore tell him everything. He glanced at the clock on the mantel—an intricate affair of gold-colored gears and flywheels twinkling under a bell jar. A minute past midnight exactly.

"Merry Christmas, Sirius. I'm so thankful you came. Merry Christmas, Remus. I'm glad you're here, too."

"Let's get some sleep. Santa can't come if we're all awake." Sirius winked.

* * *

**Hi!** A couple of you very nice readers who reviewed back on the "Truth" chapter were surprised I seemed to have predicted Severus's loyalty to Lily back before even the canonical book 5 was written. I have to confess, the speculation was actually really common on Internet discussion groups back then. I think it was the revelation in book 3 that Severus *didn't* feel he owed any debt to James that made people start wondering whether the connection he felt to Harry was due to his mother instead. It was the promise of tragic love that first sent me looking for a Harry Potter Usenet group. When I posted what I'd thought was a brilliant theory, I received a response that it was "moribund equine flagellation" that had already been discussed to death.

Speculation on a family connection, however, wasn't so common (and plotwise, it allows a second twist). Plus for a Snape fan like me, it was certainly easier to picture Lily as his sister than as a woman who'd rejected him. I mean, what kind of woman *would*? ;D


	38. Presents

_**Chapter 38**_

**PRESENTS**

_Santa must have come a dozen times at least_, Harry thought when he opened his eyes on the mountain of gaudily wrapped presents heaped on the foot of his bed the next morning. "Sirius, you shouldn't have."

Looking pleased but embarrassed, Sirius turned his back to hook the teakettle over the fire.

Remus chuckled. "They're not _all_ from Padfoot. That small red sack is from me, that big silver box is from the Weasley twins, that pretty maroon one is from Mrs. Weasley, that glittery bag is from Mrs. Granger, that stack of square ones is from the rest of the Weasleys and Grangers, that huge, rumpled package is from Hagrid, and that star-shaped box at the bottom is from Dobby and Winky. Your roommates left presents for you, too. Oh, yes. The Dursleys sent an envelope."

_But the rest_, Harry thought, _must be from my godfather_. Sitting up, he fumbled for his glasses. A moment later, he was frowning at the shabby plaid shawl Sirius had wrapped around himself against the castle's pre-dawn chill. From across the room, he could see how frayed it was. Well, if his godfather wouldn't spend money on himself, thank goodness, his godson already had.

A glance at the mantelpiece clock told Harry they had some time before breakfast. "Let's open our presents now."

Twenty minutes later, Harry sat on his bed, at a loss for which treasure to explore first. Thirty-nine presents, counting the cheap, plastic, promotional pen sent by the Dursleys. He'd beaten Cousin Dudley's birthday record. Laughing, he picked up the cracked, _Gittie's Lube Shop_ pen and clicked it. If only his aunt and uncle knew how prized their offhand gift could be in the wizarding world. He tossed it aside.

Snuggling into the enormous, red-and-gold afghan Hagrid had given him—the same one he'd seen him knitting all autumn—Harry cast his eyes over the talking Wizard's Quizzer from Remus ("A school teacherish gift, I know—but you _do_ have your O.W.L.'s coming up"), the _really nice_ pen and pencil set from Hermione's mother, another over-sized maroon pullover from Ron's mother, a long cashmere scarf from Dobby and Winky in a gray hound's-tooth surprisingly subdued for elfin tastes, the Chortling Chocolate from Dean, the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans from Seamus, and the note from Neville promising to remember to buy him some lemon drops next time they went to Hogsmeade.

Sirius had just plain spoiled him: his first wizard camera ("I can't believe you didn't already have one"), the latest Quidditch broom ("The Hermes Elite—twenty percent faster than the Firebolt and twice as maneuverable, so they say"), a padded broom saddle ("Someone should have thought of that _ages_ ago"), a magic flute, an Enchanted Entities card deck featuring full-color animations ("Your Dad and I used to play for hours"), a Sweet Dreams pillow ("Guaranteed, no nightmares"), a handheld electronic game of a dirt-track bicycle race ("I saw some Muggle boys playing it"), _Wally Wizard's Joke Book_, _Wanda Witch's Joke Book_, new dress robes, a Lock-it Pocket ("Once it's attached, nobody but you can see it _or_ feel it"), wide-legged jeans (stylish enough to make the baggy Weasley pullover look good), dress shoes, athletic shoes, black leather boots, a black leather belt, a black leather jacket, and three pairs of dark glasses ("Sometimes a young man has to show some _attitude_").

And he hadn't even unwrapped the big silver box from the Weasley twins. _Wait! _a disembodied voice had blurted out when he'd touched the ribbon. _We'll be peeking in to watch you open it at eight sharp Christmas morning. A word to the wise: Be dressed._

Sirius stood before the full-length mirror on the dormitory door, admiring the blue serge suit Harry had bought him. True to Madame Malkin's claims, the entire suit had adjusted perfectly to its wearer—as had all the other shirts, trousers, waistcoats, cardigans, pullovers, and jackets (ranging from dressy to casual) he'd bought for his godfather.

Harry grinned. _What good is all my gold in Gringott's if I don't put it to good use now and then?_

Remus lounged on the room's sagging couch, reading the cover copy of one of the novels Harry had given him—a Muggle mystery to pass the time while he was confined during the coming full moon. ("See, Sirius. Harry believes Snape's concoction is going to work.") His old teacher patted the book, then laid it atop the other two. When he shot back his cuff to consult his new gold watch, Harry caught him smiling fondly. Clearly, the London flatmate who'd sent it meant something more than shared rent.

"Harry's friends will be showing up any minute," Remus told Sirius. "Maybe you should get out of sight—in case someone looks in who doesn't understand about you."

Sirius groaned. "Let me grab another cup of tea first." As he reached for the kettle, the fire whooshed up in Christmas red and green. He barely had time to scoot into the bathroom before a confusion of voices filled the room.

"Quit shoving!" "Me first." "Hey, George and I bought the really _big_ present." "But he's _my_ best friend." "You mean _our_ best friend."

Harry jumped off his bed—already dressed, thank goodness—to come closer.

When at last the flickering flames formed into a mob of Weasleys and Grangers, it was Arthur who stood in front, his eyes dancing. "You'll never believe where we are! At the Grangers! I had to pull a few strings at the Ministry, but they approved a temporary connection to the floo network. Too bad Hogwarts blocks us from _actually_ stepping in, but you _can_ see us, can't you?"

"Every last one of you." Smiling, Harry gave each of them a warm and individual greeting. Even Bill and Charlie had made it to the Muggles for Christmas.

"Enough mawkishness," Fred—or was it George?—grumbled. "Open our gift."

Harry approached the box, experiencing an odd mixture of bashfulness and pleasure. Knowing _two_ families cared about him felt really good. He fumbled with the ribbon a moment, then ripped off the shiny paper. When he saw the carton, he whooped. "A battery-operated CD player!" Their joke shop had to be doing well.

"Dad did something to the batteries," George—or possibly Fred—put in. "Supposed to give you at least two thousand hours of listening pleasure."

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Tampering with Muggle artifacts again?"

Mr. Weasley swallowed hard. "Extending their standard purpose, dear. A wholly different matter from adding new uses, which of course, would be a woeful violation. The regulations are quite complex. I wouldn't want to bother your pretty head with—"

"But Dad," Percy piped up. "Under Section XY249, subsection D, part—hey! Who kicked me?"

Suppressing a grin, Harry wrestled out one of the heavy-duty staples holding down the carton's lid.

Ron waved over the heads of his siblings. "Forget that and open the rest of the presents. Dad can only keep the connection open another minute or two."

Harry turned to the stack of square packages, undid the bow that held them together, and tore the sparkly wrapping off the first small box. "A CD!" _Of course_. Quickly, he opened the rest and found quite a collection: Monty Python's _Final Rip-Off Album_; _Elvis's Christmas Album_; another Elvis—Costello not Presley—with _Punch the Clock_; Green Day's _Insomniac_; a recording of _Nutcracker Suite_; the Rolling Stones' _Let It Bleed_; Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_; the Beatles' _Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_; Oasis's _Definitely Maybe_; and Celine Dion's _French Album_.

"We each picked one," Ginny said shyly.

"Except Molly and me," Hermione's mother said. "We'd already taken care of our gifts before we all went to the music store."

"So you have to guess who gave what," Hermione added.

Well, Harry was pretty sure he knew whose taste fit the last one. But the others? "Let me see. Did you pick the—"

The image of his friends wavered, then blanked out a moment.

"Oops! Can't keep this spell up much longer." Mr. Weasley's face came back into focus, contorted by his effort to concentrate. "Christmas, you know. A lot of competition to use the network."

Ron pushed forward. "I wish you were here. Hermione has the neatest house! It stands up all by itself! I played chess with her computer until after midnight. Amazing! No hands! And the Internet! Unbelievable! Did you know that if we'd looked up _Nicholas Flamel_ on the World Wide Web, one search engine alone could have given us 1,170 references in one-tenth of a second? Muggles! I had no idea."

Harry grimaced. And to think they'd spent weeks thumbing through dusty old volumes in the Hogwarts Library before he'd remembered seeing the name on a Chocolate Frogs trading card. He caught Hermione's mother sending her husband a wink.

The fire sputtered, and the Weasleys and Grangers began to fade. Everyone rushed in a good-bye. Harry was just adding, "Professor Lupin would like to wish you all—" when his friends vanished. Once again, the dormitory fire was just a fire.

* * *

At nine o'clock, Harry and Remus left Sirius setting up the CD player, rubbing his hands in anticipation of some very loud rock—using the earphones that came with the system, of course, in case any Gryffindors were hanging around the other dorm rooms. Dobby had promised to bring him an ample sampling of what the elves had cooked up for Christmas breakfast.

Entering the Great Hall with Remus, Harry saw that the feast had been laid out on a sideboard. When he caught sight of Snape, moving through line with Malfoy at his heels, the thought struck Harry that they _too_ were a godfather-godson pair. As he piled his plate with kippers, orange slices, panetonne, eggs benedict, and vanocka, he kept his eye on his uncle and his almost cousin. He watched Snape sit down beside Ariel Daine who looked festive in red and gold. She smiled warmly as Malfoy settled down next to him. Farther down the table, Avery glared. When Snape glanced sidelong at the heavy, silver-and-emerald medallion hanging on a plaited silver chain from his godson's neck, he pursed his lips with satisfaction. Harry surmised the knick-knack must have come from him.

Remus nudged Harry. "Don't hold up the queue." Leaning close, he whispered, "That hunk of expensive jewelry? It's a sophisticated sneakoscope. It doesn't change color, which wouldn't be very sneaky. It vibrates so that only its wearer can feel it."

Harry recalled Ron's flashing, whizzing, buzzing sneakoscope that had gone off repeatedly their third year—alarming them to the dangerous presence of Peter Pettigrew without clueing them in that the villain who had betrayed Harry's parents was posing as Ron's pet rat. He wondered what kind of enemy would set off Draco's sneakoscope.

Ahead of him, Filch hunched over the fruitcake platter, fingering the slices one-by-one. _Probably picking out the best one to feed his cockroaches_. When the caretaker shuffled on, Harry decided he'd lost his appetite for that particular Christmas treat and trailed after Filch to the High Table. As he neared Malfoy, his perpetual rival gave a violent start. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing. _Quite a well-tuned sneakoscope_, he thought. Evidently, his presence had caused the medallion to give Malfoy a good jolt.

Filch took the seat on Professor Daine's other side. At her cheery greeting, his sour mouth twitched in a brief smile. When Remus paused to chat, Harry had the horrible thought that his friend might make them sit across from the caretaker—despite the murderous look on Snape's face. Scanning the table, Harry spied two empty spaces at the end. As he hurried to claim them, he felt grateful not to have to spend Christmas breakfast staring at Filch. He had a suspicion the old man chewed with his mouth open.

* * *

**Comments welcome**...


	39. Broom

_**Chapter 39**_

**BROOM**

Several hours later, Harry trekked back up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, laden with goodies from Professor Dumbledore's Christmas crackers—five new wizard chess pieces, three kazoos, a dozen bonbons, a gyro, and a mechanical chirping bird that required several spells to shut up. He wanted to include Sirius in his celebrations, but when he found his godfather, the weary fugitive was fast asleep on the floor—despite the guitars and drums blaring into his ears from the headphones.

Quietly, Harry turned off the music, settled his Sweet Dreams pillow under Sirius's head, and tucked Hagrid's afghan around him. He gazed down at his snoring godfather a moment, then looked around for his new Hermes broom. Catching sight of it leaning against the window casement, he crossed the rug to retrieve it. As he passed Dean's bed, he glanced at the six piles of class notes he hadn't touched since Wednesday.

_It's Christmas_, he told himself. _I'll take care of them tomorrow. _

With that assurance, he strode on and picked up his broom. The Hermes had a wonderful heft—light but solid. He couldn't wait to try it out. Since snow was still flurrying outside, the Headmaster had granted him permission to fly through Hogwarts's winding corridors. Giving him a penetrating look, Dumbledore had added, "So you'd like another chat. This time I fancy a visit to Gryffindor. Expect me at ten."

Half an hour later, as Harry practiced weaving through the entryway pillars, he was still pondering the old man's intuition. What an insightful wizard he was. No wonder Voldemort was trying to kill him—for Harry was once again certain that it was the Dark Lord who was behind the three attempts on Dumbledore's life. If only he could unmask his henchman! When he'd learned it wasn't Snape, he should have redoubled his efforts. Instead, he'd been so obsessed with personal questions this last week that the more pressing mystery hadn't even crossed his mind.

Immersed in thought, he did a loop-de-loop. As he spiraled down, he gasped. Professor Flitwick was racing below him toward the front door. Hastily, Harry banked right, barely avoiding a collision.

The little Charms master squeaked. "Harry Potter! Just like your father! A regular imp on a broom!"

Harry slowed to a hover. "Sorry, Sir."

"Your father was full of fun, all right," Flitwick added, then waggled his wand at the massive front doors. "Alohomora!" The blast of frigid air when they swung wide nearly knocked the little man off his feet.

Buffeted by the wind, Harry's broom swung from side to side. He gripped the handle to steady it. "You're not going out into _that_, are you?"

"I'll be fine," Flitwick shouted, clamping his purple pointed hat to his head. "A Mini-Primavera Spell should do me nicely—surround me with a pocket of sunshine."

"But the snow will be piled high. And the paths will be slippery."

"Can't be helped," Flitwick answered, twirling his wand to create his sphere of springtime. "Rosmerta insisted I come now. Every flea in Hogsmeade seems to have descended on the Three Broomsticks to escape this blizzard. Everyday magic is useless. She requires a Charms master." Looking very important inside his yellow bubble, he bobbled into the storm.

"Well, good luck and good—" Harry called after him. The doors crashed shut before he could finish.

_Insects, again_.

Just as Harry's eyebrows were drawing together in a frown, he heard a ghostly, girlish giggle echo across the room.

_Not by two and not by four—_  
_There they go, across the floor._  
_Not by eight. They do not wait._  
_Massed in hordes, they march to war._

With a jerk, Harry swung his broom around. "Myrtle. I know the answer to your riddles. Insects. They don't go on two legs or four legs. They go on—wait!" He shot down the hall after Myrtle's fluttering gray shape. "Hey, please! Stop! I need to talk to you! Wait!"

She smirked over her misty shoulder, then wiggled her incorporeal self up through the ceiling.

Staring at the spot where Myrtle no longer was, Harry groaned. _Where did she go? Not to her regular haunt. To the prefects' bathroom?_ Zipping forward, he tilted up the staircase. Reaching the second floor, he swung left, then felt his muscles seize up—as frozen as if he'd plunged into ice. The tail of his broom skidded on the rough flagstones, then spun him in a circle. When he'd turned around backwards, he saw Nearly Headless Nick floating off down the corridor. He'd just flown straight through him.

"N-N-Nick!" Harry called out, trying to control his shivering. "C-c-can you help me f-f-find M-m-myrtle?"

"Later, my good man. The Almost Axed Acrobats must rehearse! We're performing our Christmas show after all!"

"P-p-please! It's a m-m-matter of life and d-d-death."

"Death?" Nick shrugged, not bothering to look back. "Whose?"

"Prof-f-fessor Dumbled-d-dore's."

Nick turned with a broad smile. "Marvelous! It's about time Albus joined us."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You c-c-can't mean that. Dumbledore can't d-d-die!"

Nick lifted his chin. "And why not? Most of my best friends are dead."

"Well, yes, b-b-but—" Harry paused, trying to steady his chattering. "You need living friends, t-t-too. If Dumbledore is k-k-killed, the next headmaster might not be so appreciat-t-tive of spirits, might not underst-t-tand your acrob-b-batics, grasp the b-b-beauty of a giant g-g-ghost Christmas tree—"

Nick pursed his gray lips.

Harry pushed his advantage "—in f-f-fact, it might even be S-s-snape."

Nick's pale eyebrows shot high. "Myrtle, you say? She can help prevent Dumbledore's death?"

"Well, not exactly—but the inform-m-mation she h-h-has might—"

"Stop stuttering, man. This is urgent."

Harry clamped his teeth together and took several deep breaths through his nose. "Myrtle. I think she might help me find out who's trying to kill him."

Nick closed his eyes, intent on something Harry couldn't see. Then he sighed. "Not at the moment, I fear. Presently, she's touring the lake." He opened his eyes. "But maybe I can help—by helping you figure it out for yourself."

Harry grimaced. "It's hopeless. I've been trying since October. Just now I finally realized the business has something to do with insects—but what, I have no idea."

Nick nodded. "Then follow the insects."

Three years earlier, when a mysterious force had petrified several residents of Hogwarts—including Nick—Hagrid had admonished him to _Follow the spiders_. Doing so had nearly got Ron and him eaten by a pack of monstrously overgrown arachnids. If there was a colony of giant ants waiting to enlighten him in the Forbidden Forest, he wasn't too keen on rushing out and meeting them. "We don't have time."

"Aha!" Nick exclaimed. "And _why_ do you feel we don't have time?"

Harry groaned. "Because Professor Flitwick has been called away, and the reason was an attack of fleas, and—" He stopped mid-sentence as his thoughts raced ahead of his words. So far, each attempt on Dumbledore's life had involved a different branch of magic. After Hagrid had helped stop Rex, the mysterious conspirator had used insects to make certain the relevant master would be elsewhere before he carried out his next scheme.

"Because Professor Sprout was lured off to fight termites and weevils just before the shock laurel almost killed Professor Dumbledore. And now the fleas . . . Nick! Forget Myrtle! Help me find the headmaster! He's about to be attacked by a spell!"

Nick drew himself to attention and barked out a command. "Acrobats! To me! We must find Albus!"

All around Harry, _almost-axed_ spooks pushed their way through the walls. The three hacked up Scots flew past him while the Napoleonic beauty in her bloody gown sailed over his head. Four wizards with hideously bobbing heads crowded behind Nick, who rapped out orders to search the far reaches of the castle.

As he watched, Harry could feel his new broom jittering under him, revved up by his need to get flying. Just as he was making up his mind to charge off, Nick shot up beside him. "I'll accompany you. I have a sense where Albus is. Let's see if I'm right. As we go, keep talking about our six-legged friends. I perceive you know more than you think you do."

Harry let Nick lead, though he felt he was already way ahead of him on the topic of insects. _Of course_. There'd been an unusually large number of ants around the marble statue the day it had transformed into a dragon. And there'd been flies buzzing around the griffin's flanks. "Someone is using them as familiars. But what—"

Before Harry could finish that sentence, his notes from Magical Companions leapt to his mind. He'd seen them less than an hour ago, lying atop Dean's bed. Mouth open, he sallied ahead, then had to double back when Nick swooped right. Catching up, he panted, "Someone is using insects to cast magic at a distance, to amplify the power of that magic, and to impel others to carry it out."

"And?" Nick glanced sidelong, prompting Harry with a vaporous raised eyebrow. For the first time Harry wondered whether Gryffindor's guardian spirit had once been the headmaster.

"And to keep others under control," Harry added. _But who's doing it? And can the Hogwarts's ghosts and I foil the next attempt?_

Around another corner they zipped, then spiraled down a flight of steps. Harry tucked in his elbows to keep from bumping them on the stony walls. He mentally thanked Sirius for the broom saddle. At the bottom, he saw Malfoy plodding along, concentrating on his sneakoscope medallion. Harry swerved to miss him. Nick didn't.

"Out of our way, Slytherin!" the Gryffindor ghost proclaimed, then darted straight through him. Harry didn't have time to enjoy Malfoy's gasp and indignant scowl before Nick steered him up another hall, then dove down a narrow staircase. Harry willed every iota of magic he had into keeping up.

"Just ahead!" the ghost whispered. "I sense him. Just one more bend and—"

Harry leaned way over so he could make the right turn without slowing. He whizzed with Nick into a long, narrow, high-ceilinged gallery lit by sparkling candelabra. A multitude of prisms spilled rainbows over towering statues of malachite and onyx that flanked marble stands displaying bejeweled cauldrons, carved staffs, embroidered robes, and all manner of costly wizarding gear.

When he spied Dumbledore, strolling at the far end with Professors Daine and Snape, Harry sighed in relief. They weren't too late. The headmaster was safe with his colleagues. Filch appeared to be giving them a tour.

Slowing, not wanting to knock over any of the precious artifacts, Harry observed Filch cringe up to a tall pedestal. The caretaker rubbed his hands, then jerked his head toward the shimmering, multifaceted crystal that lay atop it. Smiling, Dumbledore stepped forward to pick it up. Filch slipped back into the shadows.

Suddenly, another image popped into Harry's head—cockroaches gorging on pastry on Filch's floor.

_Insects_.

"No!" he shouted. "Don't touch that! It's hexed!"

Startled, Dumbledore turned—his fingertips just inches from the mysterious orb.

Letting out an inhuman screech, the caretaker charged, ramming his shoulder against the pedestal. The gleaming ball shot into the air, spinning a ribbon of eerie blue light behind it. Snape grabbed Ariel Daine and yanked her behind a pillar. When Harry saw Dumbledore shield his eyes, he hastily shielded his own. A second later, an explosion rocked the hall. His broom shook. Despite his closed lids and sheltering palm, he could see a glow of lavender. Around him, marble stands thudded on the floor, porcelain shattered, and metal objects clattered across the flagstones. When the chandeliers began hailing prisms, he threw an arm over his head.

When the cacophony of destruction was finished, Harry opened his eyes, steadied his broom with one hand, and frantically patted down his jeans with the other. As he wriggled his wand loose from a deep pocket on his left shin, he ransacked his brain for an appropriate spell. Before he could find one, something happened he never would have expected: Filch brandished a wand of his own.

In an unnaturally high voice, the caretaker screeched, "Expelliarme Nemo Non!"

* * *

**Until tomorrow...**


	40. Spells

_**Chapter 40**_

**SPELLS**

At the words that came out of Filch's mouth, three wands—including Harry's—arced through the air into the caretaker's outstretched hand. A second later, wands all over the gallery shot out of their display cases, then spun end over end to join their fellows. The old man thrust the lot into the front of his ratty jacket. Harry saw his own shock mirrored on the faces of the headmaster and the Potions master. The Defense Against the Dark Arts master lay prostrate on the floor, evidently knocked out by the explosion.

Beside him, Nick mumbled, "He didn't learn _that_ in a Kwikspell course."

Filch struck a supercilious, prissy pose quite unlike his usual skulking self. With uncharacteristic haughtiness, he flicked his wand at Dumbledore. "Imperio."

Immediately, Dumbledore jitterbugged to the tune of Filch's shrill laughter.

"No!" Harry shouted. In the next moment, he felt a yank on his broom handle. Snape had sprinted up beneath him.

Angrily, his uncle gestured toward an alabaster statue of a giant. "Take cover, you little idiot."

Harry shot a glance down the length of the gallery, gauging how many seconds it would take him to fly the dozen or so yards needed to put a halt to the indignities being inflicted on Professor Dumbledore.

"He's not after me. If I just sneak around—"

His face taut and white, Snape gripped the end of the Hermes. "Get. Behind. The. Statue," he gritted between set teeth.

Harry did.

Nick followed. "Officious chap. But in this instance, quite wise."

Harry peeked between the stone ogre's knees. Snape was slinking along the wall toward Filch and Dumbledore, who was now shimmying like a hula girl. "I can't just hide. I've got to help. If I just had some sort of distraction—"

"Capital idea!" Nick cleared his not-quite-there throat. "Fire!"

"I didn't mean—" Harry began.

Filch turned toward them, his face twisted with disdain. "I'm in control here. Do you think I can be cowed with such an absurd ruse as _that_?"

Again, Nick shouted "Fire!"—this time even louder.

Harry grimaced. The only fire in the gallery came from the few candles in the chandeliers that hadn't guttered out during the explosion—not quite the distraction he needed. He felt a twinge of embarrassment for the centuries old spirit. Once upon a time, he might have been headmaster—perhaps even a renowned, imposing wizard—but he was obviously out of touch with tackling life-and-death situations now.

With a dismissive toss of his head, Filch returned to the helpless Dumbledore.

"FIRE!" Nick screamed.

Snickering, Filch raised his wand. "Cruci—"

Before he could utter the torturing curse, Nick's friend Fire shot up through the floor in all her gory glory. The caretaker shrieked. Fire contorted her Cromagnon face into a mask of gibbering, ghoulish menace. Eyes wide, Filch backed away. The ghost dropped her head to give him a good look at the gaping hole in her skull and the ghastly ax that hung from it. Filch's facade of arrogance vanished. For a moment, he looked like his usual non-magical self—frozen in stark, staring horror.

Without pausing to reconsider, Harry aimed his broom between the alabaster giant's knees. He shot like an arrow straight for the caretaker, hoping to knock the wand out of his hand before whatever power had been possessing him regained control.

Before Harry could reach him, Snape lunged at Filch from behind. With a blink of his eyes, Dumbledore regained charge of himself, stuck his hand through Fire's incorporeal body, and reached for the caretaker's wand.

Too late, Harry realized that when Sirius had said the Hermes Elite was twenty percent faster than the Firebolt, he hadn't been joking—but that twice as maneuverable didn't mean that even a superior flyer such as himself could necessarily avoid a collision when barreling at top speed.

A yard away, Harry tried to pull up. He nearly succeeded. Then, his brand new leather boots caught Dumbledore under the armpits. Off-balance, the headmaster went down sprawling. As he tumbled, his leg hooked Snape's ankle, toppling him against a marble pillar. Fire, as startled as the caretaker had been a minute before, dissipated with a howl. Harry's broom twisted, and he slid off. The Hermes continued spinning until it slammed into the far wall.

When Harry's forehead struck the debris-covered flagstones, a zigzag of light flashed across his vision. He fought to stay conscious despite the blast of pain. Barely one ragged breath later, he strained to prop himself on one hand, only to see that Filch's puppet master had reclaimed him. The last live wizard standing, Filch licked his thin lips and flourished his wand.

Valiantly, Nick dashed forward. "Once more, dear friends—"

"Petrificus!" Filch commanded.

The Gryffindor ghost—everybody's last hope—stiffened as if struck by a basilisk. Filch stepped back to let Nick sail past until he lodged halfway through a granite spire.

Groaning, Harry rolled over. He didn't want to meet Dumbledore's eyes and even less Snape's—not in these last minutes they shared before Filch became the instrument of their destruction.

_Not when it's my own stupid, conceited, cheeky overconfidence that's to blame._

As he trailed his eyes miserably across the high, vaulted ceiling, Harry caught sight of a balcony on the far side, a story above the entry through which he and Nick had flown only moments before. And standing at the rail was Malfoy.

Harry's muscles tensed with a hatred he'd never known before. _Malfoy_. He should have known. Who else could have been behind all these attempts to destroy the only chance Hogwarts—and, indeed, the entire wizarding world—had against Voldemort? Malfoy, the son of Voldemort's Death Eater right-hand man. Malfoy who, more than likely, was vying for one of the vacancies in the Dark Lord's malevolent circle. Malfoy who was surveying the fallen wizards with a somber look Harry could read only too well.

His jaw trembling, Harry willed mastery to his tongue for one final curse before Malfoy, through Filch, put an end to their rivalry forever.

Behind him, the possessed caretaker crowed with maniacal glee. "Petrificus Nemo Non," he intoned, and Harry's body went as taut and useless as Nick's.

"Cruciatus Nemo Non!'

Agonizing pain flashed along Harry's nerves, setting his entire body on fire. His frozen vocal cords denied him the comfort of a moan.

Still, Malfoy stared down at them, his expression growing more and more set. Then, slowly, he stretched out his wand.

Harry was still able to control his eyes. Resolutely, he returned his gaze to Filch, determined to stare death in the face as his mother had done so many years before.

"Avada—" Filch began the last deadly curse on an artificially high note.

Before he could utter another syllable, Malfoy's voice rang out, "Expelliarme Antigerio!"

As Harry stared, Filch's wand appeared to take on a life of its own. The old man held on as it whipped right and left. Darting a glance at the balcony, Harry saw Malfoy jerking his wand back and forth—his jaw tensed, his teeth clenched. He was pouring every bit of magic he had into wresting away the caretaker's wand.

Harry blinked, not daring to believe his own eyes. _Malfoy isn't trying to kill us. He's trying to save us._

"Avada—" Filch began again.

"Voce Silencio!" Malfoy cried.

Filch's curse became a gurgle. Harry felt strength seeping back into his muscles. He gritted his teeth, focusing his will on extending his left leg. Flicking his glance to the balcony, he saw Malfoy clamp his wand to his chest. As he did, Filch lurched forward.

_Close enough_. Straining until sweat ran down his forehead, Harry managed to kick the caretaker's foot. The old man's hands flew out as he tried to keep his balance. His wand, free at last, sailed up into Malfoy's hand. Then the buttons on the front of Filch's shirt popped open, and the whole brace of wands soared after the first. Malfoy caught them all. The caretaker crumpled to the floor.

The Petrificus Spell drained out of Harry's body, leaving him woozy.

"Draco, you saved the day!" the headmaster called out as Snape helped him to his feet. "Twenty-five, no, fifty points to Slytherin!"

The Head of Slytherin beamed.

Beyond them, Ariel Daine sat up slowly. Snape rushed to her, wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her to him.

"I'm all right—"

His harsh face softened with concern. "Hush, now. You were knocked out—"

"I'm fine. Let me help Mr. Filch, see if I can draw him out before it's too late."

Harry watched Ariel Daine open an inner pocket on her cloak, then pull out her wand. Evidently, the _Expelliarme Nemo Non_ spell wasn't powerful enough to make a wand work its way past a zipper.

Professor Daine approached the whimpering caretaker gently, her head cocked to one side. Then she reached out her wand and tapped him on the shoulder. Harry saw her lips moving but couldn't hear what she was saying. _Some liberating spell, _he thought.

Then Harry heard a sound that made him wish someone would work a liberating spell on him—one that would free him from what was fast becoming the most embarrassing incident of his life. Malfoy was sauntering across the gallery floor.

And he was going to have to _thank_ him.

Touching his forehead, Harry felt a crisscross of cuts. No wonder it was throbbing. Quickly, he struggled to his feet, then busily brushed marble dust and prism shards off his jeans. Sidelong, he watched Malfoy walk up to his godfather.

His eternal rival selected a long, black wand from the bunch in his hand. "I believe this is yours, sir."

Snape gazed at him a moment, his solemn face fairly quivering with his effort not to break down and hug his godson. Instead, he nodded curtly and accepted his wand. "Well-done, Malfoy. You've done your mother proud."

Harry caught a flash of pleasure in the pale blue eyes. He recalled the conversation he'd witnessed from atop the stone dragon—Mrs. Malfoy's premonition about the coming turning point in her son's life. Then Draco looked down at his feet, frowning. Harry suspected he was wondering what his father would say.

"Hey, now. What's going on? What's all this mess?"

At Filch's words, Harry whirled. He still didn't have his wand back, but he could use his fists if the old man tried anything. But the caretaker looked like himself again—aggrieved, distrusting, spiteful, and utterly devoid of magic. Professor Daine patted his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

Filch brushed her off. "Now, see here. I know the day: August 31st. Tomorrow that mob of wretches is going to descend on Hogwarts, and—what's this? That Slytherin snot is already here—and that Gryffindor goon, too? The Express isn't due until tomorrow night!" The suspicious brown eyes wavered between Harry and Malfoy.

"Argus," Dumbledore soothed. "Come and rest on the foot of this statue. We have a lot to explain—"

"Sit? With all this work to do?" Filch glared at the busted artifacts littering the gallery floor. "They did this, didn't they? Broom flying! Detention until Christmas!"

"Christmas?" Malfoy strutted up to the caretaker. "Today's Christmas, you gormless old fool. And if you want to know who smashed up this room, it was _you._"

"You can't talk to me that way, you little—"

"I can talk to you any way I want. When my father—" Malfoy stopped short, his eyes once more uncertain.

Ariel Daine gave Filch's shoulder a squeeze.

The caretaker's jaw started trembling. "Ridiculous." He looked from Dumbledore to Snape to Daine. Not finding any Hogwarts master ready to support him, he repeated his rebuttal even louder.

"It may _sound_ ridiculous—" Professor Daine began soothingly.

Nick, unfrozen, floated up beside Filch. "Sit down, my good man. We insist."

The wary eyes went wide. "Stop coddling me, everyone! Tell me!"

"Today _is_ Christmas," Snape explained brusquely. "You've been under an Imperius Curse—apparently since the day before the term started."

The old man wobbled. "But it's August. I just cleaned out a nest of—"

"Insects?" Harry asked.

Professor Daine shot him a measuring glance.

"Ticks," Filch corrected, starting to sway. "Then I was here. How I got here, I don't recall, but I expect I was preoccupied—"

"You were spellbound," the headmaster said, wrapping a comforting arm around the caretaker. "It's time we took you to Madame Pomfrey for a head-to-toe examination and all-over tick removal."

Filch blinked, then once again surveyed the mayhem in the gallery. "_I_ did this?"

Dumbledore chuckled, stroking his white beard. "Yes, Argus. _You_ did this."

"But—but I'm a squib."

"It would seem, not entirely. Someone took control of you and made you do things outside your will, but even a powerful wizard couldn't have pulled magic out of someone who hadn't any. You possess a spark, after all."

Harry caught a flicker of pride in the watery brown eyes before Filch muttered, "It's going to take me a week to clear this out."

Grinning, the headmaster began ushering the caretaker from the gallery. Snape and Daine followed. When Malfoy started to trail them, Harry called out, "My wand?"

Malfoy turned, smirking. "Your wand?" He raised his handful. "Surely, old Filch didn't manage to take _your_ wand."

_He even managed to take Dumbledore's, you little snoot_, Harry wanted to retort. Instead, he forced himself to stroll toward his rival with a friendly smile. "It's the holly."

"This little swishy one?" Unerringly, the Slytherin pulled out the correct wand.

Harry grabbed it before Malfoy could try some keep-it-out-of-reach taunt.

The insufferable grin only grew wider. "Next time you need someone to save you from a sticky situation, Potter, just call." Snickering, the hero of the day turned on his heel.

Harry's hands became fists. He ground his teeth, flailing for a retort. Then he swallowed hard. "Uh, Malfoy."

"Yes, Potter?"

"Thanks."

* * *

**Comments?**


	41. Appearances

_**Chapter 41**_

**APPEARANCES**

As the couple dozen students and the staff that had stayed over winter break trickled into the Great Hall for Christmas tea, nobody was more enthusiastic in praising Malfoy's skill at wizard dueling than Harry. If someone else mentioned that the Slytherin's opponent had, after all, been Filch and that Dumbledore, Snape, Nick, Fire (and Harry) had been distracting the possessed caretaker just before Malfoy challenged him, he didn't mind nodding. But he wasn't so ungracious as to bring it up himself. Yet when McGonagall whispered, "You've nothing to be ashamed of," Harry wondered if his bravado had fooled anybody.

"You did your best," Professor Daine added, taking a seat across from him, "and you did win ten points for Gryffindor."

"Yes," he muttered. "Five for shouting and five for tripping."

"Neither of which I managed to do," she said, "and I'm the Defense Against the Dark Arts master. And your insightful guess about the ticks, well . . . ." Her words trailed off in a smile as she arranged her linen napkin across her lap.

The chairs on either side of her were still empty—reserved, no doubt, for Snape and Malfoy who were dazzling a knot of Slytherins at the punch table. Ignored, Avery was actually pouring a cup for himself. Snape was so involved in his godson's tale that he didn't notice Remus stroll into the hall, accompanied by a creature that sent Harry's eyebrows skyward.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "What's Lupin thinking, bringing that great hairy beast in here?"

"Beast?" Professor Daine swiveled around. Then she sprang to her feet, letting her napkin flutter to the floor. "Oh! What a sweet shaggy dog!"

Harry covered his mouth to hide his grin as the professor rushed toward the big black dog padding alongside Remus. He mustn't do anything to give away his fugitive godfather's foray into Hogwarts society. One glance at Snape's narrowing eyes showed that he recognized the oversized creature as his detested rival Sirius. The Master of Slytherin abandoned his godson and admirers so abruptly that they stared after him.

Hastily, Harry wriggled out of his chair and hurried around the table, reaching the group just as Ariel Daine crouched to give Sirius an affectionate tickle behind the ears.

For a moment, Snape just glared. Then he grated out, "Remove that beast from the dining area. Immediately. He smells rank. Clearly, he hasn't groomed—been groomed—for ages. He requires a bath—most likely a flea dip as well."

Daine glanced up, her hazel eyes wide at Snape's vehemence.

Remus put on his most ingratiating smile. "Easy, now. He'll be no bother. He _really_ needed to get out. He's been cooped up since yesterday."

Snape's lips thinned. "If you mean he needs a _walk_, I suggest you take him outside. Preferably, on a short leash to the edge of the forest—so he can exercise his urge to mark trees. And whatever you do, remember to bring a dog scoop and clean up bag."

Sirius growled.

Remus bit back a grin. "I assure you, those needs have been met. It's company that he's missing. I just wanted to include him in the feast."

Harry caught a spiteful glint in Snape's dark eyes. "Too unsanitary. But I'll be sure to save him some choice scraps."

"Severus, please." Ariel Daine touched his sleeve. "It's Christmas. I'm sure this dear puppy will be a perfect gentleman."

The professor's soothing tone made Harry relax—until the dear puppy opened his mouth. Out flopped a big, pink, slobbering tongue to lick Ariel Daine's hand. When she giggled, Sirius sprang up on his hind legs, placed his front paws on her shoulders and slurped his long, sloppy tongue across her mouth.

She laughed like a schoolgirl. Harry's jaw dropped. Snape's face went white.

Remus leapt into action. He grabbed Sirius by the scruff of his neck and yanked him down, barely saving him from the harsh slap Snape aimed at his nose.

When Snape's hand slashed through empty air, Ariel Daine gasped.

"He looked like he might be attacking you," Harry said quickly, anxious to fill the shocked silence. "He's a good dog, really. A bit unmanageable at times, but—"

Professor Daine ignored him. Her hands went to her hips as she pinned Snape with her loftiest stare. "I've lived with hounds all my life. Back in Alabama, my Mama has a pack of them. I can certainly hold my own with one frisky, overgrown pup. _Without_ anyone striking him, thank you very much."

Snape's mouth worked a moment without sound. At last, he murmured, "I wasn't—I was merely showing him—he clearly required—a—a little discipline."

"To make it plain who's boss, I suppose? Well! Anyone who knows anything about creatures can tell you that honey goes a lot further than vinegar. To prove it, I'm going to ask Remus to sit this big, sweet doggy beside me while we eat. He'll behave."

As if demonstrating her point, Sirius sat himself calmly at Remus's side, but Harry thought his canine panting sounded suspiciously like sniggering.

* * *

Many hours later, as Harry waited on the rug in the Gryffindor common room for the headmaster and their promised talk, he was still pondering Snape's never-ending squabbles with the Marauders. Tonight, would Dumbledore finally reveal the mystery behind it all—especially, his uncle's hatred of his dad?

Harry sighed. Not quite ten o'clock. But an afternoon and evening of smiling through feasting, charades, blind man's bluff, recitations, caroling, more feasting, and the Almost Axed Acrobats' Christmas Spectacular—complete with giant, blood-dripping Christmas tree—had made him restless to get away. Even the amusement of watching Snape scowl while Sirius impressed the crowd with his smart dog tricks hadn't inspired him to stay—not when it meant more of Malfoy's sidelong smirks and his fellow Gryffindors' _You'll come through next time_ consolations. What he needed was a few minutes breathing space with Ron and Hermione—close friends to whom he could admit, _I really bollixed it up this time, didn't I_?

So Harry took out his Djinn ball.

"Lesson Three," the taskmaster wrapping paper squeaked. "It's about time."

"Not now," Harry replied. "I'd rather practice Lesson Two." If he couldn't talk to Ron and Hermione, at least he could look in on them—provided that his quick glimpse of the Grangers' living room had been enough to make their house accessible for Television of Familiar Locations at a Distance.

"Don't be a slacker," the paper snapped. "On to Lesson Three: Long-Distance Communication Djinn Ball to Djinn Ball. Ready, begin."

Harry groaned, but the crackling noise and twinkle of lights in the orb's center drew his attention. He shrugged and pressed the ball to the bridge of his nose. In a moment, the sparkle faded, and he saw the cozy interior of an old-fashioned cottage—a wide, wood-beamed room lit by candles, warmed by a roaring fire, and strung with paper chain garlands for Christmas. Half a dozen witches lounged around the quilt-strewn sofas, puffing on long-stemmed pipes, guzzling from steaming tankards, and cackling over exchanged anecdotes. They were the ugliest collection of ladies he'd seen in his entire life.

_Hags_.

When Harry spotted Millicent walking around a tray of gingerbread women, he grinned. He was looking in on her Highland holiday.

A minute later, an elderly crone with seven warts on her sausage-shaped nose squawked, "Milly! It's that chum of yours. The one you've been expecting. Quick! Catch him before the Djinn ball loses the connection."

Millicent handed her tray to another young hag and waddled toward him, closer and closer, until her face filled his sight. She was gazing back at him through her own crystal ball, which evidently she'd left on a shelf in her aunt's hut.

"Potter! It's about—"

"I know, I know. It's about time I got around to Lesson Three."

Millicent's grin exposed a mouthful of crooked teeth. "Heard there was a bit of excitement out your way this afternoon. And that for once, my cousin did the right thing."

Harry put on his best smile. "Er, yes. He did."

Millicent chuckled. "Look over my shoulder. See the woman in the green tartan? That's Aunt Narcissa. Uncle Lucius _thinks_ she's at Wizard's Rest Sanitarium."

Harry peered into the Djinn ball, trying to recognize the beautiful but haughty Narcissa Malfoy in the misshapen but jovial hag chattering by the Christmas tree. In spite of himself, he smiled. He could see how she held her son's affection.

Millicent nodded as if she'd read his thoughts. "My cousin's daring-do did her more good than a whole month of forced rest."

Once more, he recalled Mrs. Malfoy's prediction that he'd eavesdropped on from atop the dragon: _Draco is at a crossroads_. Only time would tell whether the choice he'd made would _set the course for the rest of his life_. "She certainly looks happy."

Millicent's scraggly eyebrows drew together. "But I get the feeling you're not?"

"Happy? Why shouldn't I be happy?"

"Ah, Potter." She shook her head. "You've dazzled us with your heroics so often. You've got to let someone else step forward now and then."

_And again, and again, and again_, he thought.

Millicent rolled her eyes. Clearly, she _was_ reading his thoughts. "Chin up, Potter. You've saved the day more times these last few months than you realize."

Harry grimaced. "You've mistaken me for some other chap."

"Not so. What about when you rescued Cho from Wilhelm? That smarmy git! She told me all about it. And the morning you helped me chat up the hydra?"

"That? That was nothing."

"You kept me from looking like a total ninny." Millicent paused. "And asking your pal Granger to the Yule Ball. That saved her a lot of embarrassment, too."

Harry cocked his head. "How did you know about that? Of course, you saw us there, but how did you know that's why I asked her?"

Millicent's expression grew serious. "Well, I _am_ a hag, you know. And we _all_ have the second sight." Then her solemnity dissolved in a grin. "Besides, Cho told me."

The thought of Cho saying nice things about him behind his back sharpened the bittersweet longing he'd felt since watching her stare at him through the window of the departing Hogwarts Express. He sighed. When Hedwig returned from China with Cho's reply to his letter, what would it say? Or would she even send one?

He pushed that worry away with a question about Millicent's travels, following it with another and another until a shriek broke through their chatter.

"Milly!" rasped the elderly crone. "Is that the plum pie I smell burning?"

Millicent shrieked herself. "Potter! Got to dash. See you in a week. Keep up the Djinn ball lessons. Kiss Bête Noire for me. And don't belittle the small victories!"

Abruptly, Harry's view of the hags' holiday went black.

* * *

**There you go, zipping along, leaving nary a comment. Please... take ten seconds and add a word.**


	42. Prophecy

_**Chapter 42**_

**PROPHECY**

Before Harry had time to begin moping again, he heard a loud hiccough near the door. The Fat Lady in the portrait stumbled tipsily to her feet and tottered around to face the hall.

"Password? Oh! It's you!" Immediately, the picture swung back and Professor Dumbledore poked his head into the room.

Harry jammed the Djinn ball and instruction sheet into the Lockit Pocket attached to his jeans. That done, he sprang to his feet. "Welcome!"

The headmaster bent his head as he stepped over the threshold, just managing to clear his tall, battered hat. He paused a moment to survey the common room's dusty bookcases, lumpy couches, and deeply scored oak desks. "As homey as I remember it."

He strolled past three overstuffed chairs to the rattiest one in the room—threadbare mustard brocade with cotton wadding showing in the armrests. Sighing nostalgically, he sank into its saggy depths.

After a meditative pause, he raised his head. "Perhaps I could trouble you for some of that hot chocolate?"

Harry frowned. _Chocolate_? Following Dumbledore's pointing finger, he caught sight of a tea trolley set up with two marshmallow-topped mugs and a tray of iced butter cookies.

Shaking his head in renewed wonder at the house elves' ability to come and go unseen, he retrieved the goodies. A minute later, he was settled in a striped wingback chair across from the headmaster, blowing on his own cup of piping hot cocoa.

"Sorry to be late, but I was visiting Argus. Poppy removed the ticks, but he still needs several days of rest. Awakening from an Imperius Curse to discover one has lost nearly four months of one's life can be disquieting."

"Ticks." Harry shuddered. "Sort of a really gross remote control magic."

"Remote control? Ah, yes. Muggle battery-operated toys. And using that remote control, _someone_ managed to wield some rather intimidating magic through the Hogwarts resident we'd suspect least."

_Someone? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_, Harry thought, shaking his head. "If I'd been sharper, I'd have caught on sooner. Moaning Myrtle gave me a hint nearly a month ago: _Not by four and never by two_. Tom Riddle taught her that rune, didn't he? When she told me she hadn't known Thomas Riddle the prefect, she giggled. I should have realized that didn't mean she hadn't known him as something else—Teach, her beloved tutor."

"Poor Myrtle." Dumbledore took a bite of a star-shaped butter cookie. "Cherished, childish illusions chain spirits to earthly chambers. Once she admits to herself that her girlhood crush was also her murderer, she'll finally be free."

_And the castle's toilets will never be the same_. Harry wondered how long it would be before the rest of them were free from the threat of Tom Riddle as he was today. "If Voldemort can command insects, there's nowhere he can't penetrate. How can Hogwarts be made safe?"

"Well, Voldemort is the Lord of the Flies—and of the ants, termites, fleas, and cockroaches. Any insects that swarm. But luckily there are other small creatures that aren't so obliging—spiders. Two years ago, Hagrid introduced me to his good friend Aragog. I visited her again this evening, just before supper. Her children are eager to retaliate against the man who struck their mother so many years ago—not to mention feast on all the insects they can eat."

"Uh, Aragog." Harry grimaced at the memory of the elephant-sized spider. "Ron and I met her once, too."

Dumbledore licked cookie crumbs from his fingers. Then he trained his gaze on Harry. "Insects are not the topic I expected to discuss when we made our appointment this morning. Something else is troubling you. It's been nearly a week since our last talk. Since then, you've learned a lot more about our Potions master than even I'd planned to tell you."

Slowly, Harry set his mug back on the tray. "Sirius and Remus didn't _mean_ to spill it, but—"

"Evidently, the time had come when the truth could no longer be hidden. Never mind. I found myself in similar straits the evening I revealed the truth to Severus." Dumbledore steepled his fingers in front of his long, bumpy nose. "His life was in a crisis—another story that I believe you've already heard."

When the headmaster peered at him over the tops of his half-moon spectacles, Harry nodded.

"His father was missing, presumed dead. His mother was off in Brazil, comforting herself. His entire rich, privileged life had been turned upside down. That night, I meant only to discuss his situation at Hogwarts and offer him the post of Potions master's assistant so he could complete his schooling. Instead, I found myself telling him that he did, after all, have someone to whom he could turn—a sister."

Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Harry had first heard that truth, yet still it sounded outlandish. "Had he known he was adopted?"

"Yes. I'm afraid the Snapes had not been the doting parents I'd hoped they'd be. His whole life, they'd insisted he show them 'proper' gratitude, and he resented them for it." Dumbledore smiled faintly. "When he learned he had a sister, he didn't expect much love from that relationship, either."

Harry could imagine Snape's snide response. "How did my mother take it?"

"As warmly and charmingly as I'd expected. I called her to my office the same night to share the news. From that moment, she made it her mission to win Severus over. It took her from Hallowe'en 'til nearly Christmas. But once he accepted her as his sister, she couldn't have hoped for a more devoted brother."

_A mixed blessing_, Harry thought, _considering his efforts to warn off her sweetheart_. "Once they both knew, why was it still kept secret?"

Dumbledore picked up his hot chocolate and stared at the melted marshmallows bobbing on its surface. Harry had seen such delaying tactics before. He forced himself to wait. At last, the headmaster murmured, "Because of a promise I'd made to their mother—the night the two were born." The quiet words held a trace of melancholy rarely displayed by the serene master wizard. "A pledge to a dying woman must be honored."

Harry opened his mouth, but a suspicious shimmer in the headmaster's pale blue eyes stifled his questions in his throat. Anxious to change the subject, he blurted out, "Snape—Professor Snape. If he's my uncle, why does he _hate_ me?"

Startled, Dumbledore blinked. "_Hate_? That's rather a strong word—"

"And my father—why did he hate _him_? Why was he so keen for my mother to cut him off? And don't tell me house rivalry—not only, anyway. Nor Quidditch. Nor my father's friends and admirers. I won't be put off. You _have_ to tell me—"

Before Harry could push out another word, Dumbledore held up a hand. "Enough. I am much too old to _have_ to do anything."

Harry sank back in his chair. He hoped the dancing fire didn't reveal the flush on his cheeks.

"But I will tell you what I think fit—so long as you promise to trust my judgment and make no more demands."

Harry hung his head, his unruly black hair falling like a curtain over his glasses. "No more demands."

Dumbledore crooked a finger. A footstool slid closer. With much rustling, he propped up his feet. "_Red and black—they shared a room but not a house._"

Harry glanced up sharply. He'd heard those words before—the night Professor Trelawney had ventured down from her tower. This time, when he turned her cryptic message over in his mind, its meaning came clear. "Red and Black. That means my red-haired mother and her black-haired brother, doesn't it?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"Before they were born, they shared a room—" or a _womb_, Harry said to himself "—but at Hogwarts, they were sorted into different houses."

"The afternoon I interviewed Sybil for the position of Divination master, she chanted those words in a trance—sitting right where Lily and Severus had sat the week before when I'd revealed their kinship. You can imagine how impressed I was."

"So, that was the first time she was right?"

"The first of three that I know of. Not a sterling record for a clairvoyant, but not too shabby when you consider the significance of her forewarnings."

Harry leaned forward. "Wasn't she just revealing a secret? How was that a warning? And how did Snape—Professor Snape—hear about it? And why did it make him hate—"

Dumbledore held up a cautionary finger, and Harry bit back his next words. Not until he'd contritely folded his hands in his lap did the headmaster continue. "Sybil's description of what had passed gave credence to her description of what was to come. Severus heard the entire prophecy when Sybil repeated it in a reverie on New Year's Eve. As to why it set him against James . . . ."

Dumbledore's voice trailed off. Harry caught his quick, appraising glance.

"Well, Sybil's precise words aren't important. Suffice it to say, she foretold the highpoints of your mother's life—including her death."

Hastily, Harry removed his glasses to polish them on his sleeve. He prayed the headmaster wouldn't notice the tears that had suddenly pricked his eyes.

Dumbledore looked aside. "When Severus claimed your mother as his sister, he made her his rock—the foundation on which to rebuild the shambles of his life. With Sybil's prediction, chaos threatened him anew. He convinced himself that if he could misdirect just one step in the prophecy, he'd take control of your mother's future. And so he resolved to prevent her forecast marriage to your father."

Harry blew out his breath slowly. "But he couldn't. Not for long, anyway." Lupin's murmured _If he hadn't cried wolf_ floated into his mind. Had that been part of Trelawney's prophecy as well?

Dumbledore stroked his long, white beard. "He _did_ manage to throw up a few roadblocks, but he couldn't halt destiny. By that time, Lily's love for James was so great that the inevitability of their marriage was as immutable as the fact that she'd been born."

Harry looked sidelong at the headmaster. He could guess another highpoint in Lily's life that Snape had been determined to prevent, the part of Trelawney's prophecy that Dumbledore was too delicate to mention: _his_ birth. "I'm taking Temporal Transfiguration this year. We spent a good part of last semester studying alternate universes and how, uh, chronological intercepts can create divergent sequences in the, uh, horological web. About how the infinity of possible choices makes possible an infinity of outcomes."

"Ah, so you've read Dr. Chronosticon?"

"Well, er, not exactly. But I've heard her discussed. It seems to me that if one found the _right_ intercept, one _could_ set up a divergent sequence. I mean, there _is_ such a thing as a turning point—a choice that _sets a course_."

"But _finding_ thatintercept—that's the trick. And recognizing that one _has_ set up a divergent sequence can be even harder. Once an event occurs, how does one know that what one thinks has been changed wasn't the original true course, after all?"

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses usually sat. At least, he knew the welter of possibilities had also baffled Snape.

"No," continued Dumbledore, reaching again for his steaming mug, which had mysteriously refilled with frothy hot chocolate. "Better to accept fate. Sometimes the very act of trying to counter the predestined is what sets in motion the events that will secure its fulfillment."

Before Harry could unravel _that_ conundrum, the headmaster held up a finger as if listening. Harry replaced his glasses and looked to the door. The Fat Lady burped and drunkenly waggled her head, sending her holly headdress askew.

"Your fellow students are coming back from the party. Any minute now, your holiday roommates will be returning through the fireplace upstairs. Let us go greet them. I have business with them tonight, as well."

As the Fat Lady turned her broad backside so she could ask the students in the hall to recite the password (_Brandy Custard_), Harry picked up his mug and followed Dumbledore up the winding stairs to his dormitory.

* * *

**More to come...**


	43. Shapeshifting

_**Chapter 43**_

**SHAPESHIFTING**

When Harry opened his door, he saw Remus and Sirius already settled in comfortable chairs, sipping steaming drinks. Between them stood what looked like the same tea trolley, still overflowing with iced Christmas cookies.

_Elves_. Just as Harry started forward to wish his friends the last _Merry Christmas_ of the year, he saw the fire flash green and silver. Bête Noire leapt off Remus's lap and scuttled under Neville's bed. Recognizing the dark, imposing figure forming in the swirling flames, Harry skirted the chairs until he was standing behind Sirius. Already, his godfather's back was tensed.

"I'm here," Snape muttered, shaking out his robes and scattering embers across the flagstones. "Let's get this over with."

"Severus, sit down," Dumbledore soothed.

The Potions master looked up from knocking soot off the sole of his boot. His dark eyes flickered over the assembled group. "I didn't expect an audience."

Remus smiled. "What you're doing for Sirius is such a breakthrough in the art of magic that maybe you deserve an audience—an applauding one, too."

"That remains to be seen," Sirius growled under his breath.

Snape didn't hear him, or perhaps just disregarded him. "Merely an extension of existing principles. And we've yet to learn how the concentrate will work on a human subject."

"Harry, could you fetch the professor a drink?" Dumbledore asked as Snape claimed the spot on the sofa beside him. "In a moment, we'll be toasting."

Frowning, Harry turned to the cart. _Human subject_? He didn't like the sound of that. As he began filling a cup, he discovered that the jug was now brimming with thick, syrupy rum. Evidently, Sirius and Remus were not sipping cocoa. Slowly, he walked the steaming drink over to the sofa.

Snape ignored him, rummaging through a leather case he'd pulled from his robes. Slanting his eyes at Dumbledore, the Potions master murmured, "So, he's been told?"

The headmaster sighed. "Yes, Severus. The time had come."

Snape's face betrayed no emotion. Not bothering to raise his head, he muttered, "Don't expect me to act avuncular."

_As if I'd want you as my favorite uncle._ Harry set the rum on a side table and retreated across the room.

At last, Snape seemed to find the object he'd been seeking—a small, gray medicine bottle. Without warning, he pitched it straight at his rival's face.

Sirius, his senses sharpened by a couple of years on the run, caught the bottle easily before it could crack him on the nose. His face grim, he popped the plsatic top and tapped a tiny, gray pill onto his open palm. He eyed it skeptically. "That's it?"

Snape clicked his tongue in irritation. "It's condensed. You'd prefer guzzling from a flask?"

Harry's lips parted as he recalled Barty Crouch the year before, constantly swigging from a hip flask to maintain his Mad-Eye Moody guise. _So! Snape made Sirius some polyjuice_. A shape-shifting potion would be invaluable to a man wanted by both magical and Muggle authorities—and having it in pill form would make it practical.

"Not only is it concentrated," Professor Dumbledore added. "Severus tells me that its effects will last for 28 days."

"Nearly a month!" Remus enthused. "Fabulous."

Snape's expression remained impassive. "Get on with it. This doesn't have to take all night."

With a grimace, Sirius swallowed the pill. Suddenly, he let out a long, agonized moan. Alarmed, Harry took a step forward. Then he saw his godfather's face melt. The rugged chin receded, the flat cheeks grew fat and round, and the chiseled nose swelled to the point of being bulbous. The wild, black hair seemed to grow backwards, retreating into the scalp until only a fringe surrounded a shiny, bald dome. Then the color bleached out to a dirty, dishwater blond. Shudders wracked Sirius's narrow shoulders, and his tough, stringy muscles went flabby. His lean belly bloated, stretching his new shirt to the limit. Abruptly, a thunderous fart startled everyone. The transformation was complete.

Nervously, Sirius's newly blue eyes darted from one dazed face to another. "Don't leave me hanging. How do I look?"

Harry gulped. "Uh—I don't know how to say it. You look, well, kind of—"

"Ordinary," Dumbledore finished.

Snape shrugged. "Exactly as promised."

The uncharacteristically pudgy Sirius rushed over to examine himself in the back-of-the-door mirror. He tugged at his cheeks, stuck out his tongue, and pulled on his nose. At last, apparently satisfied that the mask wouldn't come off, he turned back around. "Who's my model? What places do I have to avoid so I won't surprise my double?"

"You're worried about doppelgangers? A potion so mundane as that would hardly have needed me to make it." Snape lifted his pointed chin. "You look like no one in particular because you look like everyone in general." He waved his hand dismissively. "Basically, your face is the product of the sweepings of the barber shops of Stepney."

When his godfather scowled, Harry had to smile. So that's what Snape had been doing last fall when he wasn't computer shopping—collecting specimens.

"No warts, I'll grant you that." The unfamiliar blue eyes narrowed in a way Harry recognized as pure Sirius. "I suppose you planted them on my bum."

Snape snorted softly. "I'm a Slytherin—above such Marauder pranks as that. But that's exactly the sort of gratitude I might have expected."

Remus jumped up. "He didn't mean it. Did you, Sirius? Come now. Isn't this marvelous? With me to create you a new Muggle identity via the Internet and Dumbledore to handle the magical one, you'll be able to move freely anywhere."

Sirius grunted and shifted his unaccustomed weight from one foot to the other. "My wizarding powers—are they still intact?"

"Such as they are." Snape returned his attention to his leather case. Nonchalantly, he added, "Even that presto-chango trick you're so proud of. Turning into a _dog_, isn't it?"

"Only one way to find out," Dumbledore encouraged.

When Sirius squeezed his eyes shut, Harry leaned forward. To be an animagus—that was a skill he wouldn't mind learning. He observed how Sirius took three deep breaths to immerse himself in his spell. Once again, he trembled, but this time, he shrank. Harry watched, expecting the process to stop when Sirius reached the size of the great, shaggy Padfoot. Instead, he kept getting smaller.

Puzzled, Harry glanced sidelong at Snape. The Potions master had abandoned all pretence of being interested in anything other than his rival's transfiguration.

Apprehensively, Harry switched his attention back to his godfather. Then his jaw dropped. Sirius had not become a magnificent, untamable hound. He was a poodle—a prissy, skittering white toy poodle, complete with shaved belly, fussy fur puffs on his head, shoulders and haunches, and a cute little pom-pom tail.

Remus took one look at his old friend, bouncing on the floor like a windup toy, and fell back in his chair, overcome with hysterics. Dumbledore, more discreet, hid his mouth with his hand—but his quivering cheeks and twinkling eyes showed that he, too, was chuckling. The man responsible for Sirius's predicament merely raised an eyebrow.

Then Sirius let out a string of high, excited yips and Snape lost it.

Harry watched in astonishment as the Potions master's eternal indifference dissolved into a fit of snickering. Snape clamped his lips shut and clutched his arms as if determined to regain control. Then he exploded into laughter so raucous, he grabbed a bedpost to keep from falling.

Harry folded his arms indignantly, glaring from Snape to Remus to Dumbledore. "This isn't funny. It's s-serious. Sirius is-s-s a-a-a—" Unable to stop himself, he sank to his knees in stitches.

Clearly perturbed by the commotion his doggy appearance was causing, Sirius scampered to the door and put his front paws on the mirror. One look, and he yelped. The next moment, the poodle blew up and Harry saw a human Sirius—the ordinary, tubby version—glowering at them.

A sly smile quirked Snape's thin lips. "All wizarding powers . . . intact."

Sirius sucked air through gritted teeth. Harry wondered whether he was counting to ten. At last, his godfather retorted in a painstakingly careless tone, "A poodle. Thanks. In that form, I should be finding my way onto a lot of pretty ladies' laps."

"Or," Remus managed between gasps of laughter, "the leash of some elderly witch in Ipswich."

A vision of the dainty poodle skipping along in a rhinestone-studded collar, cosseted by an old lady like Mrs. Figg, danced into Harry's mind. Again, he collapsed into chortling helplessness. Dumbledore slapped his thigh, and Snape howled.

Sirius's round cheeks reddened. "All right. Enough. Snape's had his little joke."

Harry took a moment to catch his breath and struggle to his feet. When the hilarity finally died down, everyone was still grinning.

With a rueful sigh, Sirius admitted, "You got me. No doubt about that. Maybe now, finally, we're even."

At Sirius's words, Snape's good humor chilled so quickly, it was hard to believe he'd ever cracked a smile. Harry glanced uneasily from Remus to Dumbledore. Their eyes had become wary, as well.

"For the Whomping Willow?" Snape responded coolly. "Yes. We're even for _that_."

When the Potions master turned his back to once again hunt through his leather case, Sirius exchanged a look with Remus as if to say, _I'm trying_.

In a moment, Snape pulled out a second bottle—yellow, this time. He tossed it over his shoulder without looking. "Reversal pills—in case you require restoration to your original state before 28 days have expired."

Again, Sirius caught the bottle. Untwisting the cap, he said, "I guess I'd better try this out while the expert's still here to fix any mistakes."

Harry saw Snape purse his lips, evidently focusing on Sirius's choice of the word _mistakes_ rather than _expert_.

Showing amazing trust for a man who'd just been the butt of a practical joke, Sirius tipped back his head and popped a yellow pill into his mouth. Immediately, his body began to vibrate. Harry saw with relief that the return to normal was fast and painless. Once more, his godfather stood before him—in all his fierce-eyed, tangle-haired, weather-beaten glory.

Snape snapped his leather case shut. "As I thought, no _mistakes_. I'll be leaving you celebrants on your own. I have different business to attend."

Sirius blew out his breath. "Stay awhile. Put your feet up. Have some rum. We're big boys and can stay up late. For once, can't we put our schoolboy differences behind us?"

Snape stiffened. "Is _that_ all you think stands between us sharing a toast?"

For a moment, Sirius just stared. Then he put his hands on his hips. "I can't believe it. You still blame _me_. Why? You know Peter Pettigrew was the traitor."

Snape sniffed. "Because _you_ handed that cringing rat the key to my sister's life. If James had followed _my_ council, Lily would be here with us today. But not James. He couldn't be bothered to listen to a Slytherin. Too arrogant to believe he might be mistaken in putting his trust in his hooligan Gryffindor pals."

_How dare Snape talk like that_? Everyone else in the room—including the headmaster—was a Gryffindor. Harry braced himself for what he was certain would be an eruption of his godfather's righteous, affronted rage. He didn't know if he could keep from erupting himself.

Instead, Sirius cocked an eyebrow in a manner that Harry could only describe as amused wonder. "You still don't get it, do you? James _wasn't_ too arrogant to listen to you. In fact, he _took_ your advice. And _that's_ what got him and Lily killed."

"Absurd." Snape's dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "You know I advised him to make _me_ their secrets keeper. But no, he used my undercover work as an excuse to disqualify me. He said my proximity to the enemy made using me too risky—as if any torture on earth could have compelled me to betray my sister."

Sirius's smile only grew wider. "That's not _all_ you said."

Snape's hands became fists.

Remus glanced at their old school rival. Then he shot Sirius a look that pleaded with him to stop.

His friend ignored him, slowly, ironically shaking his head. "You really don't remember, do you?"

* * *

**Well, chapter 43. So far, about 430 hours worth of work has been posted for this story. To post and not receive feedback feels like a musician would who's finished playing a song, only to stare out at a silent audience.**


	44. Mistakes

_**Chapter 44**_

**MISTAKES**

At Sirius's question, Snape fell deathly still, but Harry saw the telltale vein in his forehead twitch.

His godfather's face took on the look of the Angel of Judgment. "You said, _Not me, then. Fine. But don't use Black. Even Pettigrew would be better than Black_."

For a moment, Snape gaped. Then his sallow face blanched white. "I didn't mean . . . . How could James have thought . . . ." His breaths came quick and shallow, as if he were gathering energy for a denial. "That's . . . that's ridiculous."

Sirius shrugged. "I thought so, too. But James considered your idea brilliant. _Little Peter Pettigrew_. Who would guess he'd been entrusted? Who else was too devoted to betray his friends?"

"If James had . . . discussed it with me. But he was too . . . too _arrogant_."

"Discussed it? Taken a vote, perhaps?" Sirius snorted. "What kind of _secret_ would it have been then? I had to be told so I could pass on my responsibilities. But of course, James told no one else—not Remus, not even Albus."

Snape staggered to the sofa. He sank down heavily, as if his knees could no longer support him.

Beside him, Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder. "You couldn't have known. Nobody blames you."

Sirius stared at the floor. "I'd always blamed myself. I should have realized the idea was treacherous." He fixed his dark eyes coldly on his long-time adversary. "But I blamed you more."

Harry saw a spasm contort Snape's face. For the first time, he truly understood his uncle—all his hostility toward his father, his godfather, himself—now that he was turning it inward. Dumbledore had said Severus Snape had made Lily Evans his rock. Harry could see he'd made her his life.

He bit his lip as his godfather strode forward, stopping an intimidating half-foot from his uncle. "When Peter betrayed James and Lily, I was sure that was why you'd suggested him. Two years ago, when you were so quick to deny all the witnesses who said Peter was alive—were so eager to have the Dementors silence me—I was sure your motive was to let him escape to cover your own treachery."

Snape passed a shaky hand across his forehead. "I—I'd believed you guilty. I craved vengeance. Nothing but watching a Dementor drain your soul would have satisfied me. It took Albus an entire night to persuade me I'd been cursing the wrong man."

Slowly, Sirius released his breath. "When you got knocked out in the Shrieking Shack and I levitated you, well—I'm afraid I rather made a point of bumping your head on the way out. Not until Remus convinced me you were indeed Lily's brother did I admit you'd made a tragic but honest mistake."

Snape's forehead furrowed with self-recrimination. Harry saw his pale lips form the word, _Mistake_.

Remus leaned forward in his chair. "Everything happened as the prophecy foretold. There was nothing you could you do."

"Except," Snape whispered, "be the instrument that ensured it would come true."

Dumbledore made a rumbling noise. "You have always placed too much faith in the illusion of control. Trying to avert what is truly destined is to be a butterfly battering against Gibraltar."

Harry saw a tremor pass over Snape's face. His uncle pressed his fingers hard against his forehead, then struggled to his feet—face to face with his godfather.

Sirius cleared his throat. "What's past is past. No use dwelling on it. Let's shake, at least. You've done wonders for me tonight. I'm grateful." Without waiting for a response, he thrust out his hand.

Snape swayed as though standing were an effort. Slowly, as if steadying himself, he closed his fingers around Sirius's.

When Dumbledore looked from one man to the other, his tension seemed to ease. "_Neither_ of you is responsible for the Potters' deaths. Always remember: the vengeance we seek is against Voldemort."

After a faint nod, Snape pulled away from Sirius. "Nevertheless, I must be going."

Sirius rolled his eyes, glanced at Remus, then put on an affable smile. In a teasing voice, he tried, "I bet it's that cute little American—the one who, uh, likes puppies."

With a determined grin, Remus added, "Ariel's a darling. Who'd have thought Severus could make such a catch?"

"A love potion—that's my theory." Sirius gave a forced wink.

Harry prayed that his uncle would at least smile. Instead, Snape's left cheek twitched. Clearly, he was still too disheartened for such lighthearted banter. With a brusque nod at Dumbledore and a glance for everyone else, he strode into the fireplace, sprinkling floo powder almost as an afterthought. Harry stared until he'd disappeared in the smoke.

_Could it be true?_ he wondered. _One rash, impulsive comment had killed his parents?_ His godfather's hand on his shoulder broke through his speculations.

"I hope you don't mind," Sirius said, "but I'm pouring myself another drink. It's still Christmas, after all. I want to get blotto."

* * *

At dawn, Harry swam out of disturbing dreams to find a non-descript face hovering above him. Blinking his eyes into focus, he recognized his transfigured godfather and groggily propped himself up on his elbows.

"I have to go," Sirius whispered. "I wanted to say good-bye, first."

Harry sat bolt upright. "You can't. You still need your—"

"New identity?" Sirius smiled. "Remus and Dumbledore took care of it while we slept. I'm Jack Secundus Thomas. My wallet is full of papers and bits of plastic that prove it."

Harry swallowed and tried again. "You've only been here two nights. Now that you have a new name, you can move freely around Hogwarts—even Hogsmeade. Let's visit the Three Broomsticks. Don't you want to see Rosmerta?"

Sirius chuckled. "That _is_ tempting."

Encouraged, Harry pushed on. "New Year's. At least stay till then."

"Can't." At his godson's frown, Sirius added, "Albus has given me a mission."

Harry's mouth opened. "A mission? Already? Is it dangerous?"

"Not more so than running from Dementors. With this bald head and chubby body, I could thumb my big bulbous nose at them and still not be sussed out."

His eyelids drooping, Harry flopped back on his bed. "Well, send me an owl. As soon as you can." He watched Sirius cast a spell to hoist his luggage. When he'd shown up, he'd had only a small backpack. Now he needed a carpetbag and a leather trunk to hold the gifts he'd received for Christmas. It was lucky the new wardrobe Harry had given him from Madame Malkin's could adjust to any body shape.

Before his godfather made it to the door, Harry drifted back into restless sleep. His last conscious thought was, _Sweet Dreams Pillow? Sirius should get his money back._

* * *

At ten, Harry left Remus in the dorm room snoring. His night of hacking into Muggle computer records to create Jack Secundus Thomas had exhausted him. After attending the griffin and checking on the hydra (which sang Malfoy's praises in four-part harmony), Harry entered the Great Hall for Boxing Day Brunch. He scanned the students and staff scattered about the High Table, searching for someone to take his mind off last night.

Nobody.

With a sigh, Harry sat down by a pair of seventh-year students from another house. They were too involved in arguing the merits of Ministry versus private industry jobs to notice him.

_At least, the meal looks good_, he said to himself.

Unlike the rest of England's servants, Hogwarts's elves hadn't taken the traditional day-after-Christmas holiday. Instead, they'd prepared a feast—fried eggs, poached salmon, scalloped potatoes, grilled pumpkin, cranberry crepes with orange syrup, apple Danish, tangerine ambrosia, homemade yogurt, and Earl Grey tea. Only Winky and Dobby were enjoying a break. They perched at the far end of the table, gazing at each other with saucer-sized eyes while syrup dribbled down their chins.

At the table's other end, Ariel Daine was not having such a pleasant time with Severus Snape. All whispers and gentle touches, she seemed to be cajoling him to confess the reason for his depression. He appeared insensible to her efforts. Harry had barely downed half an egg when his uncle pushed away the plate his companion had piled with Boxing Day goodies. Without looking at her, Snape murmured something and stood. Harry watched him trudge down the length of the Great Hall and out the double doors. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the troubled man, but what could _he_ do? As usual, Snape had established his own isolation.

A forkful of fish halfway to his mouth, Harry peeked past the side of his glasses at Professor Daine. She had already crumpled her napkin on top of her plate.

Harry shook his head and gazed up at the enchanted ceiling. Unlike his mood, the sky revealed was clear and bright. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to escape—to fly away from the tragedies of the past and the uncertainties of the future. Coming to a decision, he planted his spoon in his mound of potatoes, gulped down the last of his tea, grabbed a pastry, and left.

* * *

**The "Confessing Conifer" tomorrow...**


	45. Retrospection

_**Chapter 45**_

**RETROSPECTION**

_Wudang Shen_. Cho would be proud of how far Harry could fly. Holding his mind in the state of restful concentration she'd taught him, he bounded from oak to birch to sycamore until he was breathless. Sighting a mighty pine in the distance, he drove himself to one final leap. For one brief moment, he feared he'd miscalculated. Pumping his legs like pistons, he propelled himself the final inches needed to grab a branch. He hauled himself up and crawled toward the trunk.

But when he'd settled himself in a nice niche, his distressing questions returned. What if Lily and James had never kissed and made up? What if they had never married? What if little Harry Potter had never been born?

Perched all alone in the massive pine with nobody and nothing to distract him, Harry groaned. If only he knew a self-erase or, at least, a delaying spell for unsettling thoughts. He was in no state to sort out the jumble of secrets he'd learned in the last few days. But until he gathered the energy needed for more flying, he was stuck here with his mind racing.

Or was he? Reaching up under the waistband of his oversized Weasley pullover, he felt for his Lockit Pocket. He pulled out the cold, hard Djinn ball and the crinkled wrapping paper. Smoothing it out on his knee, Harry's edginess faded when he heard the familiar, throat-clearing cough. _A diversion_.

"Only 39 hours since your last lesson. I commend you. And I approve your choice of instructional location."

Harry paused to give his martinet mentor's words a chance to sink in. They still didn't make any sense. "What are you talking about?"

"Lesson Four, of course: Retrospection of Personally Significant Events."

_Huh_? Harry stared at the paper, hoping for a hint. Reluctantly, he admitted, "You've lost me."

The squeaky voice took on its cross tone. "Retrospection: To see into the past. To form images in a Djinn ball of personally significant events of the past, locational proximity is facilitating. Places vibrate with prior events long after the individuals who produced them have gone. So again, I applaud you on initiating Lesson Four here."

"_Here_? You mean, in this _tree_?"

"Indeed, the Confessing Conifer. _Must_ you be so dense? This is where your mother sketched her brother lying in the grass so many years ago."

Harry stared in surprise at the twisted branches and tangles of frost-encrusted pine needles and cones that surrounded him.

The wrapping paper tsked. "I don't mean _here_, I mean down _there_. Don't you see those drifts of crackly leaves, just beneath the snow?"

Harry leaned over his branch. Below him he saw nothing except yesterday's snow, but he could see his mother's sketch in his mind. That animated drawing had caused him so much anxiety, he wished he could just forget it.

"Quit shirking. Position your Djinn ball. Ready, set, see."

Harry did as he was told. In a moment, he found the scene in the mists of his crystal ball instead of his memory—but this time, the lounging figure of teenaged Severus Snape appeared to be flesh and blood.

Faintly, he heard his uncle say, "There's no one I can relax with except you."

Harry's heart began to pound.

"Careful," the paper advised in its gentlest tone so far. "Brace your spine against the tree. Steady your respiration. Recall your lessons to date. And above all—" the voice paused for emphasis "—remember that what you are about to witness is merely an echo of the past."

Harry lined his back up against the tree trunk. For good measure, he hooked his leg through a narrow space between two branches. Staring again into the glowing Djinn ball, he took three deep breaths. Then he employed a skill he'd learned in Lesson One: he thought his point-of-view into a new position, lowered it to the ground, and slowly revolved until he was gazing at his mother. At the sight of the sweet-faced, sparkling-eyed, red-haired girl, his chest tightened with such intense longing that he'd have fallen from his perch if the paper hadn't prepared him.

At her brother's words, Lily grinned. "So, you're going to relax, for once. Is that a promise? No outrageous arguments about why I should give my boyfriend the elbow?"

Harry heard a growl. He willed his point-of-view to back up to a wide angle that embraced both his mother and her brother.

Young Snape sat up straight, clutched his knees, and thrust out his pointed chin. "You think that because Trelawney is such a fool, this is just a joke. But in this case, even the headmaster takes her seriously. You should, too. You have to—you _must_ put this silly crush behind you."

"Crush?" Lily smiled and resumed sketching. "It's a bit more than that."

Snape's grip tightened until his knuckles looked white. "Only your life."

Lily glanced up, her green eyes suddenly grave. "If I allowed fortune-telling to rule my heart, what kind of life would I have then?"

Snape flopped to his side, apparently too upset to look at his sister. "What you call your _heart_ is just happenstance. If you two hadn't been sorted into the same house—hadn't been thrown together every class, every meal, every evening—you'd never have started up with Potter. Admit it. Your _I-love-him-forever_ devotion wouldn't even exist."

Lily cocked her head. "Rather like my sisterly love for you if Professor Dumbledore had never told us we're related?"

Snape's cheek twitched and he darted her a backward glance. Then quickly, he turned away. "Exactly."

"Sev," she said softly. "Don't you know I've felt a kinship with you since our first month at Hogwarts?"

Snape stirred but didn't look at her.

"Truly," Lily said with a smile. "Remember that flying class, a few weeks into our first year, when Pete Pettigrew's broom went bonkers? You took off after him and saved him from dashing his brains out against the astronomy tower—at the risk of getting slammed into it yourself. Your heroics caused quite a bit of discussion in the Gryffindor common room. Everyone wondered how a boy with such a nasty tongue could do something so decent."

"Decent? I earned thirty points for Slytherin. End of story."

Lily laughed. "Well, _some_ of my friends thought so, but Minerva took a different view."

Snape rolled over to stare at his sister. "Who on earth is Minerva?"

Lily raised an eyebrow. "Surely, you remember Minerva McGonagall—head girl our first year? I'd have thought she was unforgettable."

"Ah, Minerva McGonna-get-all-you-Slytherins." Snape groaned. "She was the bane of my house that year, docking points for everything. I'll bet she had _quite_ a lot to say about why I bailed out that little milksop—none of it favorable, I'm sure."

Lily returned to her drawing, but her smile was full of affection. "When my pal Sirius pointed out how utterly insulting you always were as proof that your motives couldn't have been noble, Minerva set him straight. She said you were of a rare breed: you weren't nice, but you were good."

The sneer dropped from Snape's face. Clearly, her answer had disconcerted him. When he spoke, his tone was tentative. "She said that?"

"Yes. And I've never forgotten it."

Harry, gazing into the Djinn ball, released his breath slowly. _A personally significant event_. The wrapping paper hadn't been joking. What if his father had never trusted Peter Pettigrew enough to make him his secrets keeper? What if Snape had never recklessly suggested him? What if he'd never saved the dirty rat's life?

From his chilly post atop the snow-hung conifer, Harry continued to gaze at the spring day—the spring of his mother's too-short life. With a funny story Hagrid had told her about sasquatches, Lily jollied her brother out of his brooding. He groaned over the mess of newt livers some first-years had left for him to clean up in the Potions storeroom. She teased him for making eyes at Florence.

Echoes of the past. Harry lost himself in them.

* * *

When a loud _Psst_ broke Harry's reverie, he nearly toppled off his branch. His eyesight blurred—as if he were viewing two disparate pictures in a stereopticon. For a moment, he continued to see silhouettes of Snape lounging and his mother sitting cross-legged sketching. At the same time, the ground below began fading in—drifts of white marred by dirty patches where leafless brambles and dead thistles poked through the snow.

"Quick! You've got company," the wrapping paper hissed.

The Djinn ball images faded out as his eyes focused past them to the couple standing at the base of his pine tree. As usual, Severus Snape was cloaked in black. Ariel Daine wore a blue mantle as light as an August sky. She'd pushed back the hood, revealing her fluffy blonde hair.

Quickly, Harry jammed the Djinn ball and instruction paper into his Lockit Pocket. Then he pulled his arms to his sides. He wanted to make himself as narrow as possible should his unexpected visitors chance to look up. After all, he didn't want two professors docking points from Gryffindor for catching him in the Forbidden Forest. Thank goodness, he'd been leaping from tree to tree instead of on the snow. Apparently, they'd been floating. They hadn't left any footprints, either.

Glancing down past the side of his cheek, Harry saw Professor Daine reach out to pat the bark. "So, this is the Confessing Conifer you've told me so much about." Her voice was light and airy—as if she were still trying to coax her companion out of his gloom.

"Yes."

"And being under these branches can really sway people to confess their secrets? I bet it's not a favorite spot for young men to bring their sweethearts."

Snape shrugged stiffly. "When I was at school, I never met a girl here—except my sister. She was the only one with whom I could let down my guard."

_So Professor Daine was told before I was_, Harry thought.

She laid her fingers lightly on Snape's shoulder. "Then I'm honored."

Harry rolled his eyes, wishing the two would continue their walk. Now that he was no longer gazing at May time, the December air felt nippy. The sky had clouded over, as well. The possibility of wheedling some hot apple cider from the house elves was enticing. But he couldn't leave until the professors did.

Snape reached out to grasp Daine's hand. A moment later, he dropped it and turned to stare at the tree. "I brought you here because, today, it's time for me to . . . be candid."

Dane folded her hands under her chin. "You've told me so much about yourself, it's hard to believe you've been hiding something."

"It's a truth I've been hiding from myself."

"You can tell me anything. You know that." Her voice was calm, but Harry caught a hint of uneasiness in the way she hugged her arms to her chest.

Snape rocked his head, as if trying to loosen some unbearable tension. "I—I have a tendency to try to _control_ things. Things that shouldn't be—_can't_ be controlled."

Harry saw Daine brush her hair out of her eyes, visibly relieved. "You have a tendency to try to be controlling? You know, honey, that's not exactly a _secret_. So long as you don't try to control _me_, I can accept it's an attitude you're working on. That you're aware—"

A sharp groan from Snape cut her off.

She reached out, then stopped—her fingertips inches from his back. When he whirled to face her, she slipped her hands inside her cape.

"That's just it. I have tried to control you—_have_ controlled you, and you don't even realize it. It was wrong. I did it because—because I couldn't control myself."

"Darling, sugar—"

Snape pressed his fingers to her lips. "Please, let me speak. Admitting my faults is difficult. If you question me, I won't be able to go on."

Harry grimaced. Forbidden Forest or not, why hadn't he revealed his presence the moment the couple had arrived? Then he could have left them to _share_ in private. Now it was too late. He should stick his fingers in his ears—block out the declarations Snape would despise him for hearing. But he didn't. Instead, he strained to hear more.

* * *

**Until Monday...**

**P.S. Yeah, in canon McGonagall is more than just seven years older than Snape; but not in "AU" land.**


	46. Confession

_**Chapter 46**_

**CONFESSION**

Standing on the snow beneath Harry's pine tree perch, Snape again turned away from Daine. Again, she folded her arms protectively against her chest. His uncle coughed a few times and made an audible swallowing noise. At last, he began to confess.

"The evening we were introduced, I dismissed you as just another last-minute hire. _Too pretty for a proper Defense Against the Dark Arts master_, I told myself. _Too mild in manner. Not enough force._ I soon realized, I'd been wrong."

"Why, that's a lovely thing to say. I—"

Snape held a hand up, again silencing her.

Harry shook his head. _Even when he's confessing, he has to be controlling_.

"That's when you began to . . . _disturb_ me. The night after the Halloween ball, after dancing with you, I couldn't sleep. And it only became worse. All those long talks about the Death Eaters and the trials that face us—I felt a special bond with you. Then I would see how attentive and caring you were with everyone and realize I'd been mistaken. Our friendship wasn't _special_ after all. Round and round, my thoughts went until one evening, I had a dream."

Snape paused to draw two ragged breaths. Daine didn't speak, but Harry could sense her nervousness.

"For a week, I'd been disdaining sleep, experimenting with some novel potions late into the night. That evening as I marked essays, my long hours caught up with me. One glass of wine, and I fell asleep at my desk."

Harry's eyes widened. _This_ dream, he'd witnessed.

"I saw my sister. In real life, I had failed her. In my dream, I faced a monster and slew it. I was so elated to have saved her life, I found myself telling her everything—all about you, how I felt about you, things I hadn't even told myself. Lily . . . she gave me her blessing." Snape shook his head. "Something woke me before we could talk longer, but from that moment I committed myself to winning you."

Harry pressed his back against the Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder had had more effect than he could have imagined. How could so much dreamtime have taken place between the moment the professor confronted the Bandersnatch and the moment he jumped up to dash into the stairwell?

"And you did win me," Daine said softly.

Snape pivoted so fast, she took a step backward. "Don't you see? I won you, but I did so dishonestly. Have you ever asked yourself why you were drawn to me? Wouldn't it have been more _logica_l for you to be attracted to a man with whom you were, well, comfortable? Say, Lupin—rather than me, who—"

"Remus?" Daine giggled. "Oh, honey. Remus is a sweetie, but he's not my type. And I'm _definitely_ not his. In fact—"

"Stop!" Snape waved both of his hands insistently. "I _must_ finish. I confess to you that I acted unfairly—reprehensibly, abominably. I _forced_ you to want me. I—I used a love potion."

Harry pursed his lips to whistle, then caught himself just in time. _A __love potion. _Was that the explanation for everything? A flurry of wind stirred the pine needles around him. He leaned over his branch, frankly gawking at the couple below.

Snape gazed at the ground, looking like a chastened schoolboy.

Dane playfully lifted her chin. "Not the one with rhino horn, I hope."

Snape pulled himself to attention, his black cloak swirling around him. "Certainly not. Rhinoceri are an endangered species. I'd never—" He stopped, staring at her. "Don't jest. Confession isn't easy for me."

She continued gently, "Nor damiana root?"

"No." Snape's answer was taut. "Rose, Rosemary, Pansy, fennel, columbine, rue, violets, crushed garnet . . . ."

Harry recalled Neville's makeup final. Had the plant specimens he'd gathered for the professor gone into a love potion? And the morning Snape had caught Cho and him at the edge of the Forbidden Forest—had that been the rose-colored concoction he'd been brewing?

". . . steeped under the glow of the morning star," Ariel Daine finished dreamily. "An Adoripotion. Never you mind. I'm flattered."

The Potions master didn't seem to hear her. "I'm horribly ashamed. Adoripotion is sanctioned only for those willingly renewing or enhancing their matrimonial bonds. The Ministry sets strict standards. I trampled them. Worse, I violated my own principles. One cannot _pursue_ happiness. One has it, or . . . ." He shook his head.

Harry heard Snape release one of his typically derisive laughs, for once aimed at himself.

"To ensure the potion's potency, I added chimera tooth. How apt. Muggles see the beast as symbolic of unrealizable dreams."

Harry remembered Hagrid saying Snape had asked for one.

"Oh, Severus." Daine sighed. "And when did you give me this overpowering philter?"

"At the Yule Ball. I'd hidden the vial in my sleeve." Guiltily, Snape poked his boot at the snow. "I sprinkled it on your strawberry tart."

"I remember," she replied. "When you looked into my eyes, my heart swelled. My entire body started to shimmer."

Snape moaned as though he'd been stabbed.

"I'll admit, your Adoripotion gave me a buzz. It added a little sparkle to the way I'd been feeling since I brought Winky out of her trance and caught you gazing at me."

Snape glanced up.

Dane edged nearer. "Truly. That first time you cut me off. You literally slammed your office door. I felt foolish—sure I'd been seeing things. You intrigued me, but I feared the appeal was strictly one-sided."

Snape stared at her. Then stubbornly, he shook his head.

Silently, Harry groaned. _Stop being such a mule! _Around him branches creaked in the brewing wind. He concentrated hard to catch Snape's response.

"An effect of Adoripotion. You've revised your memories of what happened before you took it. You only imagine that—when actually you never—You _were_ kind to me. Always. As you are to everyone."

"It's _not_ my imagination." Insistence had crept into Daine's voice. "I was attracted the day we met. And I've been crazy about you since the night I learned the kind of man you are—the night Albus explained your mark to me."

Abruptly, Snape clutched his left arm.

Daine nodded, her blonde hair tousled by stray gusts of wind. "When I glimpsed it during the square dance, I was aghast. I thought you were one of those _rehabilitated_ Death Eaters. When I learned you had been the double agent who'd risked so much and received so little honor—"

"You called this my badge of courage," Snape finished, so faintly that Harry barely heard him.

"Yes. Everything I teach the kids about the assaults and snares of evil wizards comes from information you risked your life to uncover. How could I not find you fascinating?"

Harry watched Snape tuck his head down, wary of accepting Daine's words. Suddenly, there was nothing Harry wanted more than to see the two professors kiss and make up. _Come on. She likes you. Give in before the storm blows and we all freeze._ But Snape was more skeptical than the Gryffindors had been at the Yule Ball.

"You wanted details. Understandable. Defense Against the Dark Arts is your area of study." Snape released his breath slowly, creating fog in the cold air. "But in all those long talks, you never exhibited any _signs_—not until you ingested the Adoripotion."

"Signs!" Daine threw up her hands. "Like what? Batting my eyelashes? Wiggling my hips? Simpering? Acting like that spoiled flirt of a mother you've complained so much about?"

Snape hunched his shoulders. "Well, yes."

"I've never simpered in my life!" Daine's cape billowed about her. "Don't you think I'm sick of men assuming that since I'm blonde, my head is empty? Sick of men who wished that was the way I was?" She ran her fingers through her hair as if she'd pull it out. "You know I was engaged once. The day I stopped that zombie from dragging my fiancé into quicksand was the day he broke it off."

"The idiot," Snape muttered.

"Yes! That's what you said the first time I told you. Don't you know your saying that was more powerful than a whole gallon of Adoripotion?"

Snape pressed his fingertips to his forehead. He shook his head yet again.

Clenching her hands, Daine released an animal cry of pure frustration. "I can't believe it! You think me more empty-headed than all the men who ever said, _What's a nice girl like you doing in such a hairy subject as dark magic_? That's what you're implying when you claim I don't know my own mind, when you insist a potion can control me!"

Snape drew himself to his full height. "The ones I concoct are exceptionally potent. I'm considered preeminent in my field."

"Ooo!" Quivering, Daine stared back at him. "You're putting me off. You know that, don't you? After the most wonderful week of my life, you're _dumping_ me . . . all in the name of your preeminence at potion making!"

A sudden bluster rocked Harry's branch. He hugged it tightly. The wind blew chill on his face. All around him pine trees were twitching and shuddering. Above him the clouds broiled in shades of slate and gray.

Beneath him, Snape passed his hand over his face, his fingers tangling in his long, black, wind-ravaged hair. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm saying I acted disgracefully. I'm begging your forgiveness. I'm hoping that . . . after the philter wears off . . . we can once again be . . . colleagues." He stared at Daine's back, then folded his arms inside his robes. Leaning into the wind, he set off toward the castle. This time, he trudged, leaving deep prints.

She didn't turn. Seeing her shoulders tremble, Harry feared she was weeping. Then she jerked back her foot and kicked the snow, sending white powder exploding into the air. Harry's eyes widened. Professor Ariel Daine wasn't crying. She was steaming.

* * *

For what seemed an eternity, Professor Daine stayed beneath the Confessing Conifer—clasping and unclasping her hands, stamping the snow, muttering to herself, and occasionally punching the air. Harry kept to his high roost—clutching his arms against the chill, chattering his teeth, and cursing himself for getting stuck in the freezing, damp tree in the first place. He could understand Daine giving Snape a head start to avoid catching up with him, but this was getting ridiculous.

Harry heard clattering in the next tree over and braced himself for what he was sure would be an icy blast of air. When he looked down to see whether the mounting storm would finally send Daine racing for the castle, his stomach lurched. The professor was fighting something besides her own emotions. And that something was invisible.

Harry stared at her struggle with growing horror. All the while, he groped in his shin pocket for his wand and frantically tried to wiggle his leg out of the crook of branches where he'd fixed it. The unseen enemy appeared to clamp a hand over Daine's mouth, muffling her attempts to shout. When she succeeded in slipping her wand from her cloak, the invisible force twisted her arm until her contorted fingers could no longer hold it. Suddenly, she went limp, suspended in mid-air.

Faced once more with a challenge, Harry felt his nerves steadying. An instant later, he freed himself and jumped from his perch. He aimed his wand and his feet for where the thug's back should be. Not knowing what he was tackling, he wasn't sure whether physics or metaphysics would be more effective.

Then, at the last second, his descent stopped with a jolt. His wand jerked out of his hand and kept falling. His legs dangling, Harry thrashed from side to side, violently, pointlessly. He groaned. His big, baggy Weasley pullover had caught on a branch.

Abruptly, Daine collapsed to the ground. Whatever had been holding her was now using both hands to pull an invisibility hood off its head. When Harry saw two familiarly malicious gray eyes staring up at him, he knew it was too late for him, as well. He couldn't see the wand that Wilhelm Avery pointed at him, but he felt its effects when his muscles seized up and he began twitching like a puppet on a string. Some sort of Petrificus Spell prevented him from crying out. The back of his pullover finally unhooked, and he plummeted, face first, into the snow.

Above him, Avery's voice was amazingly, infuriatingly lazy. "So, two birds in the hand—much better for catching the one in the bush. Won't my lord be pleased when I bring _both_ of you?"

Harry felt himself yanked up by his hair. He didn't know which felt worse: his cheeks stinging from the clinging snow crystals, his hair follicles screaming _let go_, or his fear of what would happen next. From the corner of his left eye, he glimpsed his wand lying useless atop Professor Daine's. From the corner of his right eye, he saw her hanging by her short blonde hair, mercifully still unconscious. Between them, Wilhelm's bodiless face smirked.

"And to think—all semester, I'd been depending on that mug Filch to pull off my lord's schemes."

Wilhelm rose a foot into the air, apparently buoyed up by an invisible broom. A moment later, Harry felt himself yanked off his feet and slung over the handle, along with Professor Daine. As the burdened broom slowly lifted, he heard his captor gloat, "No doubt about it. When you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."

* * *

**This is the cliffhanger where I left this story ten years ago. This time the final 14 chapters are completed and the next is ready for posting. **

**P.S. No reviews the first day this was posted. Did anyone read it?**


	47. Quarry

_**Chapter 47**_

**QUARRY**

Only the excruciating, unbearable, nauseating pain of hanging doubled-over a flying broom handle kept Harry from slipping into unconsciousness as Wilhelm Avery angled up into the sky. When his abductor swerved to avoid the Confessing Conifer, Harry's glasses slid off his nose, catching precariously in his tangled hair. The world became a blurry, gray murk.

_I must fight back_. Harry concentrated his will on regaining control of his muscles. Sweat froze on his forehead. Still, he couldn't muster so much as a twitch. His stiff, useless limbs whipped about, banging into Ariel Daine's with every jiggle and jog of Avery's lackadaisical flying.

_At least, I can keep my bearings. _Recalling the lazy way Avery sought the Golden Snitch at Quidditch, Harry was certain the Slytherin was wasting no movement now on trying to confuse his captives' sense of direction. But soon sheer lack of sensory clues—other than the wind roaring in his ears, stinging his eyes, and freezing his skin—destroyed all hope of determining what that direction might be.

Just when Harry thought things couldn't get any worse, the storm hit.

When the first volley of sleet hit them, Avery swore. With a mumbled spell, he rigged a bubble over himself that left Harry's feet at the mercy of the ice and snow. A gust buffeted the broom, and Avery swore some more.

_What if he loses control_? Dizzying fear swept over Harry as he pictured them plunging to bloody, mangled deaths. Then desperate hope swelled inside him. If they fell from the broom, Avery would lose his grip on his Petrificus spell. Released, Harry could use the magic of Wudang Shen. He could race across the sky. He could grab hold of Ariel Daine. He could pilot them safely to the ground. Cho would be so proud . . . .

Unknown hours later, long after the blizzard had subsided into pitch-black night, Harry's fantasies were cut short by Avery's descent. The broom swooped through what appeared to his near-sighted vision to be a large broken window. Vague shouts greeted them. Avery leaned into a wide curve, circling a cavernous room that looked like the inside of an abandoned factory.

_A victory lap_.

Suddenly, Harry felt his old scar catch fire. He nearly passed out from the raging pain. Then he summoned the mental discipline he'd practiced so hard with Cho. Straining with his last ounce of willpower, he Stronger, itshrank the torment to a manageable ache. Cho's musical voice rippled through his mind. _Bond with the natural energy of the Universe. It surrounds us always_. Harry forced himself to embrace the fierce throbbing in his scar. _The enemy is near. Thanks for the warning._

Avery bumped down. Harry caught an out-of-focus glimpse of hooded men crowding around—as well as a slight, white-robed figure standing stock-still a few feet back. Then he toppled off the broom onto a cold, dank slab. A second later, Professor Daine plopped on top of him, grinding his nose against the cement. Mentally damping this new source of pain, he concentrated on listening. The excited congratulations—that had to be Avery senior. The grudging "Well-done"—that sounded like Malfoy senior.

Then another man silenced the others. The refined, Oxford voice was kind and reassuring—if just a trifle too high. White-hot agony pierced Harry's head. _Voldemort_.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. We have guests. And one of them is a lady—or should I say _the_ lady who is going to facilitate the fulfillment of our plans. Let us be gracious."

Harry felt Ariel Daine float up from his back.

"Wilhelm, I really must protest," the villain continued. "You've allowed the poor dear to muss her hair. Me, oh my. The tribulations of crosscountry travel. Ah, just as well—all the more poignant a sight to the one we seek." He paused. "And our other guest?"

Harry's mouth went dry.

"My lord," Wilhelm began in a manner that managed to be both fawning and gloating, "A most fabulous accident, an unexpected windfall, a fortuitous—"

"Raise him," Voldemort interrupted with a hint of annoyance.

Harry jerked up like a trout on a hook. His glasses, still knotted in his hair, banged against his neck. With a swift glance, he saw that Professor Daine was still out cold. Quickly, he counted the semi-circle of assembled wizards and witches—twelve, not counting Avery. The white robed person off to the side concerned him. How did a young Muggle girl fit into this picture?

The man in the center pulled back his hood. Resolutely, Harry narrowed his eyes to stare back. Despite his fuzzy vision, he could see that Tom Riddle had transformed himself yet again. Noting the villain's jolly, golden-haired, rosy-cheeked façade, Harry hoped some poor university don wasn't stuck in a crate somewhere—an ongoing supply of specimens for polyjuice potion.

"Oh," Voldemort observed airily. "It's _that_ one."

Harry willed his breathing to stay calm and even. The last time he'd faced the Dark Lord, _he_ had been the prize—captured through a lengthy, contrived, overly-complicated set of maneuvers to provide an element of Voldemort's rejuvenation potion and to fight a duel Harry had managed to escape. This time he _wasn't_ the end of Voldemort's means. Would the Dark Lord keep him alive to toy with him—or was he now the _spare_ that Cedric had been, a nuisance to dispose of with an offhand curse?

With his last shred of resolve, Harry mustered his best insults. _Creep. World ruler wannabe. A face not even a father could love. Parasite. An arse a baby could kick. Toady magnet._ He didn't know whether Voldemort could hear his thoughts, but he hoped his disdain showed on his face. He had to make himself interesting enough for his nemesis to prefer a long, drawn-out plan for his death. The more ingenious and convoluted the scheme, the more chance Harry would have of wriggling out of it.

"Yes, Wilhelm—this one may provide some sport." A hint of malice spoiled the Dark Lord's civilized tone. "Indeed, despite some lamentable slips, my inclination to let you complete our little circle does not appear ill-advised."

"Thank you, my lord. My only question is, how soon?" The junior Avery looked meaningfully toward the young girl.

Voldemort seemed to pout. "If your flight plan had been a bit more efficient, we might have held the ceremony tonight. The initiation must begin at a minute past midnight. Ah, well. We haven't long to wait for the appropriate moment to come 'round again."

_Initiation_. A sick feeling twisted Harry's stomach. He darted a glance at the girl in white. She was to be the sacrifice that would launch Avery's Death Eater career. _No_. He _had_ to save her.

At that thought, a deeper magic stirred within him. Harry sensed it welling up from deep inside his subconscious. An unexpected energy vibrated through his limbs. More primordial than his willpower, more compelling than his resolve, this profound magic struggled against the Petrificus Spell—gaining strength until it took hold of his vocal cords and wrestled them free.

"Sport?" Harry squeaked.

Voldemort jerked his head toward him.

"Sport," Harry rasped again. "I'll give you . . . if you're not . . . too cowardly . . . a contest for the girl . . . her life." He paused, panting. Resisting a hex was hard going.

Despite the feebleness of his defiance, the Dark Lord looked disturbed. Would he dispatch him to avoid any more bother, or would he return the challenge?

Voldemort cocked his head. "Imagine that. Our quarry wants a tussle. How about it, Wilhelm? A final series of tests to prove you're ready to join the big boys. This evening, then. Before the ceremony."

"My lord, I look forward to it." Avery's uncertain glance at Harry didn't match the confidence of his words.

Harry was glad the Petrificus Spell kept his delight from leaping to his face. Compete against Avery? The girl was as good as saved. Barring ambushes and snagged pullovers, he could beat that lazy Slytherin any day of the week. And if he stayed on his toes, he'd save Ariel Daine and himself as well.

* * *

In a few minutes, Harry was finally able to reach up, disentangle his glasses from his matted hair, and settle them squarely on his nose. He focused on Avery smirking at him.

"Sport." Snickering, the Slytherin shut the door to Storage Locker Number Nine, Harry's makeshift cell. A bolt clanked.

Harry shuddered with relief. True to form, Voldemort wanted to play. Why else would he have told Avery to lift the Petrificus spell once Harry was locked up? His stomach hurt. His head ached. His throat burned. When he took a step in his soggy boots, he nearly tripped over his numb feet. Even so, he smiled. _I can move again. I have a chance._

So Harry set out to examine his prison. With eyes, fingertips, and ears he sought a possible exit. He whispered every spell he could think of that conceivably might help. Without his wand, his words lacked focus and power, but his basic, innate magic was in them. But everywhere he turned, that magic bumped up against unseen barriers—some force he couldn't quite penetrate.

Poking into a shadowy corner, Harry touched something squishy. Hastily, he pulled back his hand. Mastering his squeamishness, he kicked the _thing_ toward the door. Illuminated by a narrow crack of light, the lump looked pink and shiny—like flesh with the skin peeled off. Swallowing hard, he bent down to peer at it.

When he realized what it was, his eyes widened. Then he groaned. _A rubber chicken_. A Death Eater practical joke against a hungry, helpless prisoner. _Ha, ha. Very funny. But we'll see who has the last laugh._

A long while later, Harry sank to the cold cement floor. All he had to show for his painstaking search was a handful of Muggle pranks: the rubber chicken with its flaccid cock's comb, revoltingly realistic fake vomit, a plastic watch that could squirt water (but which was empty), a box of itching powder, and a cloth snake that sprang out of a peanut tin. He shifted uneasily, desperate for an idea of what to do next.

Then he remembered his Lockit Pocket.

* * *

**Okay, I've been told this Voldemort is out-of-character. But… for the first few books he seemed to be pretty much a different character each additional time we saw him. Yes, no?**


	48. Telepathy

_**Chapter 48**_

**TELEPATHY**

As advertised, Sirius's Christmas present the Lockit Pocket had been undetectable to Avery when he'd patted him down. Smiling, Harry reached into his invisible, impalpable pocket for Millicent's Christmas present. When he touched the paper, he was thrilled to hear its familiar, throat-clearing cough—but this time he heard it inside his head.

_Most providential that you should seek out Lesson Five in such straits as these: Long-Distance Telepathy Djinn Ball to Djinn Ball. _

"Telepa—"

_Shhhh!_ His teacher hissed in his brain. _Your vain attempts at escape are being observed. Whatever you do, don't speak!_

Harry gulped. _My lips are sealed,_ He thought back_. Tell me what to do._

_Crumple me in one hand, and sneak the Djinn ball to your eyes with your other. Lean your forehead against your knuckles. A pose of defeat. Ready? Think. _

_I'll contact Millicent_.

_Can't._ _She's visiting her mum. She left her Djinn ball at her aunt's. _

_Then I'm sunk. The only other person I know with a Djinn ball is Trelawney. If she stares into it, she'll think me a portent_—_not an actual, live, human being that— _

_Calm yourself! You _do_ know someone else with a Djinn ball. Think, think, think! And he doesn't need to be near it yet if you can find someone to bring him near it._

Harry's memory flashed on the crystal ball he'd set back on Snape's desk the night of his Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria interrogation. An instant later, he was looking out of it at the Potion master's office. That meant his haggard face would be visible inside it. _Success! _He'd cracked the dark force surrounding Storage Locker Number Nine—if only with his mind. He peered around the scarred mahogany desk, noting the familiar black gargoyle and a new copper-and-glass dragon. No Snape.

_Okay. Now what?_

The paper tsked. _Must everything be spelled out for you? Contact someone who can lead the professor to his Djinn ball._

Harry groaned. _I suppose you're going to make me figure out how._

_Find a Sensitive. Think! Who has been aware of your presence via the Djinn ball? Think!_

Crookshanks had noticed him. That made Bête Noire a possibility at Hogwarts—but in the castle's vastness, how could he locate a cat? Then there were Dobby and Winky. If that made all elves a possibility, then the kitchen would be the place to start.

As he raised his point-of-view from Snape's desk to get going, Harry's lips parted in wonder. Dobby was jumping up and down in the doorway, biting his lip and pulling at his scalp. A hank from his scant hair was already missing. Relief close to joy spread through Harry. His faithful friend had found _him_.

_Severus Snape!_ Dobby's agitated voice sounded in Harry's head. _Dobby must find Severus Snape to help Harry Potter. Follow me_.

Harry's view in the Djinn ball cut to the Potions storeroom. Then to a stark, orderly, black-curtained bedchamber stocked with books, scrolls, and cauldrons. Then he was looking out the astronomy tower's windows at a threatening, gray dawn. _Sunrise? Have I been a prisoner that long_? When his viewpoint jumped yet again—to Snape's classroom—he realized he wasn't so much following his little friend as metaphysically holding his hand while he Apparated around Hogwarts

In quick succession, Harry saw a corner of the teacher's lounge, the restricted section of the library, and a bedroom decorated with cream-colored lace and framed photos of smiling blonde witches surrounded by hounds. _Odd. _The castle seemed empty. When Dobby stopped at the top of the stairs leading down to the entry, Harry saw why. The staff and the couple dozen students who had stayed over Winter break stood huddled together at the foot of the stairs, listening to Professor McGonagall bark out orders for who should look where for the missing Daine, Avery, and Potter.

Nobody seemed aware that Harry Potter was among them, frantically trying to attract everyone's—anyone's—attention.

In the next instant, his panorama switched to an elf-high view of the muddy hem of Snape's robes. Dobby reached out and tugged it. Craning back his viewpoint, Harry saw the professor scowl downward. Slowly, the irritation faded into uneasy comprehension. Snape nodded curtly. An instant later, Harry was again staring up from the professor's desktop, fretfully ticking off the seconds.

After awhile, the number of those seconds told him that, indeed, humans could not Apparate inside Hogwarts. Just when he was worrying that maybe the professor hadn't understood Dobby's silent summons, Snape burst through his door, slammed it shut behind him, stopped, and stared at Harry. Then he hurried around his desk, sank into his chair, and pulled his crystal ball closer.

_Tell me what's going on._

Images of the kidnapping, the reckless flight, and his ignominious tumble to the floor of the Death Eater's lair spilled out of Harry's memory more quickly than he could form a coherent answer.

_Yes, yes, _Snape brusquely interrupted his stream-of-consciousness. _I deduced as much. Tell me what's going on now. Where are you? Has Voldemort spoken to you? What do you know of his plans for you?_

Harry's mind projected a different picture: the Muggle girl draped in white. Not more than ten, she looked as bashful, vulnerable, and innocent as Ginny Weasley had the first time he'd seen her.

Snape's forehead furrowed as if in painful memory. Coolly, he answered, _Of course. I should have anticipated this development. Voldemort's coven will not command full power until it once again numbers thirteen._

Harry sent an image of Avery's leer. _He won't be the thirteenth if I can help it. I challenged Voldemort for the girl. Avery and I are competing for her tonight. _

_You'll lose_.

Harry released an audible snort. What else would he expect Snape to say?

_You forget: you'll be dueling without your wand. _Snape paused, his face reflecting some bitter recollection he didn't communicate to Harry. With a grimace, he pulled himself back to the subject. _The only other wand in existence that can truly direct your powers is Voldemort's. I rather doubt he'll lend it. _

_If I were fighting him, I'd be worried. But Avery?_ Harry smiled.

His uncle clicked his tongue. _As arrogant as your father. Hear me out before you scoff. No question, your magic could best Avery's—were the match to be fair. He's worse than a mediocre scholar; he's no scholar at all. Last semester, Draco did most of his work. _

Harry raised his eyebrows.

Snape pursed his lips. _Improper in the short run to turn a blind eye, granted. In the long run, advantageous. Better for Draco to hone his skills, than that sycophant._

In grudging agreement, Harry dredged up a picture of Malfoy wrestling away Filch's wand.

_But I underestimated Avery's ambitions. His dullness to Hogwarts's offerings didn't mean he'd not been more apt elsewhere. When Voldemort instructed, he listened. Recall the hexes that sluggard managed to cast these past few months—including the one that captured you. _

Harry bit his lip. _He, uh, kind of caught me by surprise._

_Indeed. Underhanded but effective. _Snape centered his gaze on Harry's. _Don't imagine this will be some noble ordeal by combat. The Dark Lord accepted your dare for its entertainment value. He'll set tests he believes his minion can solve—those most likely to mystify you—all for the pleasure of seeing you squirm._

When his uncle shot him an image of a butterfly struggling on a pin, Harry blew out his breath. _I get the picture. __You think I'm being foolish—brave Gryffindor, and all._

_On the contrary. Putting on an heroic show could provide an expedient delay. The Death Eater ceremony must commence a minute past midnight—no sooner and no later. If you postpone Avery's inevitable victory, you could buy that hapless Muggle another day._ Snape drummed his long fingers on his desktop. _How far along are you in the knowledge of crystal balls?_

_Telepathy Djinn Ball to Djinn Ball. The instruction sheet showed me today. _

_Good. The next lesson should prove useful: Telepathy Through a Sensitive. Miss Granger has a cat, does she not? Voldemort will devise trials that show off his obscure knowledge. That's Miss Granger's forte. And with her use of Elixir of Infinite Memory, her store of esoterica will have increased vastly. _

Harry frowned. _You want Hermione to whisper answers to me during a contest? That would be—_

_Cheating? Don't be an idiot. Remember your goal. Proving you can single-handedly save the day? Or preventing the girl from being killed?_

Harry sighed. _The girl, of course. It's encouraging you think I can save her—at least with Hermione's help. _

Snape shook his head. _When you least expect it, after you've solved every riddle and met every challenge, Voldemort will bend the situation to his advantage. Never mind. All you need do is hold on. The wheels are in motion. _

Harry shifted awkwardly. Something here wasn't quite right. _From what I saw, everyone is still looking for us at Hogwarts._

Snape's expression remained impassive. _A distraction. The situation is too sensitive for the masses to know of it. _

Harry wondered whether McGonagall was aware that her search parties were pointless—or was she, too, one of the masses that hadn't been told the real story?

_The situation is too sensitive_, Snape continued,_ to reveal to anyone who is not already at work solving it. Tell Ms. Granger the competition is being held in the Great Hall. Don't let on it's anything more than a friendly, holiday pastime. _

_But she's one of my best friends—_

_And as such, she'll feel driven to rouse the whole magical world to rescue you—likely the Muggle world as well. If cornered, Voldemort would most certainly unburden himself of you and— _

A spasm of pain passed over Snape's face. Harry caught a glimpse of Ariel Daine—battered and disheveled, but awake and bristling with all her Good Witch of the South righteous indignation. This wasn't his memory. It was his uncle's.

Just as quickly, Snape pulled the image back. _Yes. She has been shown to me_.

_Voldemort contacted you?_ Harry's surprised thought burst out. He remembered the Dark Mark on his uncle's arm that would forever give Voldemort a link to him. _Why would he— _

_Can't you figure it out? _A ghost of a smile twisted Snape's lips, making him look more wretched than if he'd scowled. _And to think Ariel was so impressed with your lucky guess about how Voldemort and his flunky had exploited the insects._

Harry released his breath slowly. _He's sticking to his original goal. This time the branch of magic he wants to use is yours. He took Daine to lure you away so you won't be at Hogwarts to stop him when he tries to use a potion to kill Professor Dumbledore._

In Harry's mind, silence. His uncle was shielding his thoughts again. Peering into the Djinn ball, he tried to read the hooded eyes as they flickered aside to the delicate dragon statuette. He surmised Daine had given it to him.

At last, Harry heard Snape's murmur of a thought. _Not quite. He means for me to do it._

Such a tremor of alarm shook Harry that he almost dropped his Djinn ball. _Kill Dumbledore? You wouldn't, of course. Never. What a stupid idea. As if! The joke's really on Voldemort this time._

For an instant, Snape's lack of response reverberated ominously in Harry's head. Then his uncle raised his chin. _A joke, indeed. The Dark Lord is certainly prone to his whimsical flights of fancy._ When his uncle glanced away across his desk, Harry got a glimpse of what he saw: Dobby anxiously wringing his hands. Then the Djinn ball cut back to Snape's troubled face. _Your impulse was correct: taunt Voldemort to keep him amused. Before coming here, I, too, created a diversion. Now, however, his attention is circling back. He will fix his awareness on me to ascertain how I'm taking his ultimatum. To handle it my way, I must have no interference. Give me your word you won't tell Miss Granger—or anyone else—what game is really afoot_.

Harry gnawed his lower lip. _Okay. My word_.

_I'm relying on it. Don't contact me again. Have faith. _Abruptly, Snape leaned forward until his fathomless black eyes filled the crystal. _And whatever you do, Harry, don't push Voldemort too far._

The Djinn ball went dark. Harry continued to hunch over it. His uncle had certainly given him some practical advice. But his admonition: _have faith_? That hadn't been quite so comforting.

_Stop lollygagging,_ the instruction sheet rapped out in his brain. _You heard the professor. On to Lesson Six: Telepathy through a Sensitive._

* * *

**Okay, don't comment. Leave me hanging. As of 5/21/13, this chapter has no reviews. **


	49. Channeling

_**Chapter 49**_

**CHANNELING**

Ignoring the paper's irritable _Hold on, there_, Harry locked his Djinn ball on the Grangers' fireplace looking out—the only view he'd had of Hermione's home. _Piece of cake_. Finding Crookshanks was another matter. After a few seconds of waiting for the cat to stroll by, he begged the instruction sheet to show him whichever lesson covered exploration of unfamiliar places.

_Not until you've mastered Lesson Six_, his teacher snapped.

_I'll master it as I go!_

_You've too much to learn. This postponement will provide a precious period to preview proficiencies politic to possess prior to your parley with your pal._

Harry groaned. The paper's alliterations were as bad as Dobby's.

_Precisely. Your reaction brings me to skill one. You have communicated to me that you are exasperated. Had you wanted to hide the fact, would you have known how?_

_Well—_

_As any child being cross-examined by an adult is aware, in face-to-face communications you keep your feelings out of your voice and out of your facial expression. But could you disguise your true sentiments from someone privy to your thoughts?_

_I don't think_—

_My point exactly,_ the paper replied. _And what about this: If you wanted to disguise the truth in conversation, you would relate a plausible alternative. But how would you hide the truth from someone who has entered your mind?_

_Enough, already_. _I don't know._ The paper had made Harry so unsure of himself, that he'd lost his connection to Hermione's house. _All right, then. Please. Teach me._

An hour later, after the instruction sheet had effusively complimented itself on imparting mind control skills the Bureau of Auror Investigations Academy took a whole year to teach, Harry felt confident he could communicate telepathically with Hermione without breaking his word to his uncle. When he linked up to her fireplace again, he was relieved to find Crookshanks on the rug, lazily tugging burrs out of his shaggy, ginger coat. The Tom cocked an eye at Harry, then blithely returned to his grooming.

_Find your mistress!_ Harry shouted mentally. _I don't have all day!_

Crookshanks growled, stretched, then languidly fixed his inscrutable green eyes on the presence that had disturbed it. In the next instant, the Djinn ball showed the smoldering fire as seen by those same eyes. Slowly, the cat rose and padded out of the Grangers' living room, taking Harry's point-of-view with him.

Harry saw a plush, Persian runner leading down an oak-floored hallway edged with scalloped wainscoting that suggested a luxurious, restored Victorian mansion. The cat paused to _grr_ softly at a gnawed mouse hole behind an antique Chinese cabinet. When Harry gave Crookshanks a mental nudge, the cat ambled on past towering bookcases and palms in brass pots to peek into the kitchen where Hermione's mother was basting six capons roasting on a spit. Crookshanks hunkered down to dreamily sniff the air.

Harry examined the room, hoping to find Hermione. Although the house was old, the kitchen had been updated into a gourmet cook's paradise. From his cat's-eye view, Harry could see three pots as big as cauldrons sending steam up from the modern stove, a rack of pies bubbling in one spacious oven, and a fat goose sizzling in another. His stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before.

Consciously clamping down on his hunger, Harry prodded the cat to scan the rest of the kitchen. No Hermione. He groaned. Crookshanks was dawdling again. He was grateful when Hermione's mum caught sight of her daughter's pet and yelled, "Darling! Get this animal out of here!"

As an oven mitt came flying toward him, Crookshanks turned tail and ran, loping back into the hall, around a corner, and up a grand staircase to the second floor. When Hermione peeked out the third door on the left, the cat raced to meet her. Harry saw a blur of doorpost, red blouse, and Hermione's chin as she swept the feline into her arms.

"There you are, my iddy-biddy Muggum-wuggums. Is my widdle Sweedy-kins getting his naughty widdle self into big fat twubble again?"

_Cut the mush, Hermione. I need your help._

From the dumbfounded, slack-jawed shock on his friend's face, Harry knew he'd made contact. He paused to catch his breath. The physical effort of mentally transmitting an audible message through a sensitive was taxing.

_I thought_, he managed in an aside to the know-it-all instruction sheet, _you said cats can't talk._

The paper sniffed. _Technically, the cat is not talking. It is channeling. And if you don't want to expend your remaining energy on idle nattering, ask your friend to place her right hand on her familiar's head. For this exercise to do you any good, you'll need a cognitive link._

* * *

After an hour, Harry and Hermione had harmonized their mental communication to the point that he could send her thoughts and images while the Djinn ball hung at his side in his Lockit Pocket, and she could respond while tickling Crookshank's head.

_Thanks for asking McGonagall's permission to team up with me long distance. I'm always glad to try out a new magical skill_.

_No problem. Competing without my wand is going to be new for me, too. But with you as my partner, we'll kick the stuffing out of the Slytherins_.

Harry just hoped that what he projected during the heat of the actual contest would continue to match the picture he'd painted of a sociable, inter-house match.

A minute later, his handy-dandy reference dashed downstairs to help her mum set the two tables required to serve all the Muggle grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins showing up to the post-Christmas Granger reunion. Harry curled up on the hard floor for a fitful rest.

* * *

An untold while later, a loud clank woke Harry with a start. He looked up to see that the door to his cell was already closed again. Approaching the crack of light under it, he discovered he'd been given a hunk of dry bread, a bowl of watery soup, and a cold chicken leg with meat as tough and rubbery as the fake one he'd found before. When he'd finished—all too quickly—his stomach still growled.

_Where is Hermione? _By now, the succulent fowl her mother had been roasting would be as bare as the drumstick he was passing impatiently from hand to hand.

_Don't worry_, the Djinn ball replied telepathically from his Lockit Pocket. _Use this waiting period to prepare._

_Prepare?_

_Certainly. This pouch I'm in can hold more than you think. And you never know what you might need._

_Surely, you don't mean—_

_Surely, I do_. The Djinn ball sent Harry a picture of his pile of Muggle pranks.

_Even the—_

_Rubber chicken? Definitely._

Rolling his eyes, Harry began doing as he'd been advised. When the Djinn ball told him the correct time, he set the trick watch's cheap digital display and strapped it to his wrist. He was just shoving the chicken bone into Sirius's Christmas gift when the door to Storage Locker Number Nine whipped open. For a moment, he gaped. _Freedom!_ Then an Imperius Curse took hold of him and trotted him out of his cell.

_Hermione, where are you!_ Harry cried out mentally, as he marched like an automaton past a row of rusting vats, down a corridor of unhinged doors, and back to the vast, idle machine room where he'd previously confronted the Dark Lord. What he saw there would have made him burst into hysterics if not for the hex controlling his muscles.

Apparently, he'd been summoned to a tea party.

At the center of the dirty concrete floor, the black-robed villains perched on red velvet sofas with dainty lace antimacassars behind their heads. A beatific smile adorning Voldemort's rosy lips, he poured tea into fragile, rose-patterned cups and passed around platters of meringue cookies, madeleines, and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts fussily trimmed off. His henchmen looked distinctly awkward as they made the earth-shattering decision of whether to accept one lump of sugar or two. Harry recognized the fathers of his classmates—Crabbe, Goyle, Avery and Malfoy—as well as Pettigrew. The other half dozen that he didn't know, one witch and five wizards, completed the gang of twelve.

If the sight of the villains sipping tea wasn't funny enough, the rusting metal sign hanging above them, identifying the abandoned factory that had become the Death Eaters' new hideout filled him with silent laughter: _Bogschwarz Joke Factory: Rubber Chickens and Other Tomfoolery. _

Ariel Daine and the nameless Muggle held out porcelain cups, which Voldemort politely filled. Since they sat as stiff as mannequins, they could enjoy little more than the steam. As Harry came to a halt at the edge of the group, the professor darted her hazel eyes at him and blinked. A moment later, the Imperius Curse plunked him down beside her, compelled him to pick up the last china cup, and made him extend it to his tormentor for refreshment he wondered if he'd ever taste.

His hosting duties done, Voldemort stirred three lumps of sugar into his own tea. "Now that we're all here, let us discuss the terms of tonight's entertainment."

As the Dark Lord took a sip, his sycophants murmured their agreement.

"First, I think we must let our competitors equip themselves. Too bad Mr. Potter dropped his wand. Ah, well. His clumsiness, his loss. That's fair, isn't it?"

More murmurs. Harry gritted his teeth, wondering how plastic vomit and the rest of his scavenged oddities would stand up to Avery's magical gear.

"I will be devising a little obstacle course—a series of puzzles and problems to try the skills and knowledge of these fine young wizards. Normally, allowing tips would lessen the excitement of such a spectacle, but considering the tender age of the players, well, I think we may permit the occasional hint."

Voldemort's glance sidled over to Harry. "Naturally, when you're stumped, you may ask our advice, too. After all, that's only fair."

Harry ignored the Death Eaters' appreciative sniggers. Little did they know he _would_ have a coach he could trust—assuming Hermione returned in time.

"And boys, I'm afraid we must prohibit killing or otherwise incapacitating your opponent—during the contest, at least. That rule may remove some of the potential thrills but, in all fairness, it will ensure the game is played to its end."

Voldemort smiled. His followers bobbed their heads.

"And lastly, we come to . . . me. _I_ will be the judge of whether the contest is being carried out according to good form. After all, I am the creator of it. What could be fairer?"

A moment later, the Imperius Curse forced Harry's hands and those of his fellow prisoners to stuff themselves messily with Voldemort's teatime treats. As he crammed a powdery cookie into his mouth, chewing rapidly to avoid choking, Harry ignored his captors' smirks. The match he was facing would be challenging. A glance at the terrified Muggle girl reminded him that the stakes would be high. He needed to fortify himself.

* * *

At eleven p.m., according to his gag watch, Harry found himself teetering on the edge of a rusty vat. The Death Eaters leaned over the railing of the catwalk above him, awaiting their master's introduction to the _little obstacle course_ he'd just spent seven hours preparing. Willimar was whispering last minute pointers into his son's ear. Ariel Daine stood frozen beside them, only her soft hazel eyes conveying her encouragement.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord materialized above the vast cauldron's murky depths. "Welcome to Lord Voldemort's Merry Maze. Once our two contestants are stationed inside, I will clear the mists, and you will be able to follow each exciting twist and turn. Both of our fine young wizards will tackle five tests. For most of our game, they will be facing separate trials—until the ultimate showdown and the final prize."

_The Muggle girl_. Where was Hermione?

Voldemort swished his wand, and Wilhelm floated down from his father's side to the opposite edge of the vat. When his rival stared into it, his fear boosted Harry's hopes.

"Let's count down, shall we?" Voldemort said, still hanging in mid-air between them. "Ten, nine, eight, six—just joking. Five, four, three, two—whoever touches the Muggle first wins—go!"

Harry felt the Imperius Curse fade. _Jump! _he told himself. _Avery Senior wouldn't be egging his son on if it wasn't safe._

Taking a deep breath, he stepped off the edge.

* * *

**Ten hours to write, ten seconds to comment.**


	50. Tests

_**Chapter 50**_

**TESTS**

Once Harry leapt into the vat, the fog made him blind. Time slowed down. His heart thumped in his ears. He had just enough time to wonder whether this whole contest thing was a ruse to get him to leap to his death, when his feet struck flagstone. The impact sent a jolt through his bones, but he didn't stumble. And suddenly, he could see.

He was standing in an octagonal room with a hallway leading from either side. A monster guarded each path. And one of them was a sphinx.

_Eureka!_ All he had to do was answer its riddle, and Wilhelm would be left with the hulking, hairy, salivating beast blocking the other entrance.

Striding forward, Harry heard the familiar "What walks on two legs in the morning . . . ." When he opened his mouth to answer, "Man," a shriek inside his head jerked him to a halt.

_Harry! I'm here! Sorry! Couldn't get away sooner. Aunt Edith wanted to sing, and Mummy made me accompany her on the piano. Everyone kept asking for encores of "Mad Dogs and Englishmen." And we played canasta. Cousin Ian cheats and—_

_Hush! Tell me later. I'm just about to answer a sphinx's riddle—_

_Don't say "man"! _Hermione interrupted. _That was last year's answer. McGonagall would never use that same chestnut twice._

_Well, it's not exactly McGonagall—_

Ten feet away, Wilhelm touched lightly down. Having a wand certainly helped, Harry groused at a level blocked from Hermione. His rival took one look at the sphinx and shouted, "Man!"

Harry groaned as the sphinx stepped aside to let Wilhelm into the corridor beyond. Immediately, the creature pulled a chain that crashed down a spiked gate.

_Nice going, Hermione. I don't suppose I can ask for a second riddle._

When he sent his friend an image of the knuckle-dragger in the opposite hallway, she groaned, too. _That's an ogre. You could try to slay it, of course, like Beowulf slew Grendel—_

_Not likely. I have no weapons. There's got to be another way. I see a medallion on its chest. Maybe it's a clue? I see letters. B M X._ Harry frowned, remembering the stunt bikes in the handheld game Sirius had given him. Didn't BMX stand for bicycle motocross extreme? Surely, the way to get past this monster was not to pull a one-handed X-up seat grab.

_That's not the Roman alphabet_, Hermione said. _Those are old English runes_. _Roughly, they translate to the sounds B E G._

_Beg?_

_The answer can't be that simple . . . ._

The ogre bared his teeth and lurched forward.

"Beg!" Harry shouted. "I beg you to let me pass. Please! Please! Please!"

The ogre grunted and kept coming.

Falling to his knees, Harry clasped his hands toward the beast. "PUH-LEEZE!"

It nodded and stepped back.

Harry scrambled to his feet and raced into the hall before old Grendel could change his mind. Fleetingly, he wondered whether the Death Eaters had had a big laugh watching him grovel. Then a thundering clang made him spin around—just in time to see, in the burnished surface of the closed steel door, a hazy reflection of yet another monster strutting up behind him.

When Hermione caught the image of the serpentine dragon with rooster's head and rooster's feet, she squealed in delight. _Oooh! The teachers have really pulled out all the stops, haven't they? That's a cockatrice._

Harry swallowed hard. _To me it looks like a basilisk_.

_Well, it's related to the basilisk, so you'd better not catch its eye._

He recalled the slam, bang, frenzied battle he'd had with Tom Riddle's pet in the Chamber of Secrets a few years before. He saw the reflected beast scratch the floor menacingly. _I don't have a sword. Quick, Hermione. What can I do?_

_Hmm. A cockatrice can be killed by a weasel. And it's vulnerable to the crowing of a cock. _

Harry fumbled inside his Lockit Pocket. _I have a rubber chicken—don't ask me to explain. Do you know a spell to transform it into a live rooster? _

_I recall one for transforming a clay model. It might work on rubber. But without your wand, you'd have to concentrate your energy into your index finger. It'll hurt. _

_A lot less than losing will_. Harry held the floppy toy at arm's length and pointed at it stiffly. With all the majesty he could muster, he repeated after Hermione, "When a cocke groweth old, he layeth an egg verrai colde, he hatcheth by a toad. For a cocke verrai young . . . ."

As he chanted, his finger grew bright red. Just when he thought he couldn't stand another second of the searing heat, a spark leapt out, wrapping crackling lines of white hot energy around the toy chicken. It wriggled. The pale, pink rubber took on the look of bare, pimpled flesh. The beady eyes came to life. Harry let go. The rooster landed, flapped its featherless wings, snapped back its head and crowed.

_It worked!_ Hermione sounded pretty pleased with herself.

Sucking on his finger to cool it, Harry watched the cockatrice in the reflection wobble on its spindly bird legs, then collapse in a heap. _Hermione, you're my savior._ Then he glanced at his watch: eighteen minutes already gone. If he wanted to be the Muggle girl's savior, he had to move. He turned, assured himself that the monster was really unconscious, then raced around it.

_Girl? _Hermione asked.

_Uh, g__irl cockatrice_, Harry said quickly. _I see a nest_.

_Are there eggs? They're very rare. Could you get me one?_

_I don't have time— _Then he remembered the instruction sheet's advice: _You never know what you might need_. Barely breaking stride, he reached down to scoop up the three tiny eggs and stowed them in his Lockit Pocket.

Dashing under an arch and around a corner, Harry nearly slammed into what looked like a metal pillar. As he stepped back to see what it was, the strange cylinder rose from the ground. His gaze traveled upward until he realized what the object was: an enormous pewter stein being drained by a Cyclops.

Hastily, he pulled back around the corner to where the naked rooster was still crowing lustily. _What's Avery facing? I have all the monsters._

_And that one's a doozie_, Hermione mused inside his head. _The best way to incapacitate a cyclops is to bury it under an avalanche, but—_

_I'm a little short of boulders right now. What's the best way to sneak around one?_

_Oh, that's easy: blind its eye. You could climb up and—but you don't have a sword. Maybe, a magical arrow could—_

_Hermione!_

_Distract it . . . blind it . . . ._

"I know!" Harry said aloud. _I don't have to actually poke out its eye—just close it long enough so I can edge past._

Not waiting for any more consultation, Harry pulled the tin of itching powder from his Lockit Pocket and sneaked back into the cyclops's chamber. As he rubbed his thumb in a slow circle on the lid, he dredged up one of the countless runes Moaning Myrtle had crooned to him as he'd stood watch over the Phantasmagoria serum:

_I, Harry, command you to form_

_I, Harry, command you to storm._

He shook the tin three times.

_Come out of your dorm-_

_ant state_

_I command you to aggravate!_

_Exasperate!_

_Infuriate!_

_Swarm!_

With a flourish, he twisted off the lid.

A black cloud—a gnat for every speck of itching powder in the little tin—exploded into the air. In tune with his wishes, they whined en masse up to the cyclops's startled eye. A moment later, the monster was batting them with one hand and furiously rubbing his closed eyelid with the other.

_Brilliant_, Hermione observed._ Where did you learn that one?_

Without wasting the time it would have taken to answer his friend, Harry zigzagged between the cyclops's ankles. He grinned at the thought of Voldemort's displeasure at seeing his own spell used against him. Reaching a rough wooden door, he yanked it open and slipped through.

The room on the other side made Harry's mouth drop open in wonder. From a dank dungeon, he'd emerged into paradise.

In a few steps, he was surrounded by flowers: blue crocuses crowding pink tulips, orange lilies with crimson centers, tangled vines hung with purple sprays, yellow daffodils nodding at fuzzy white eidelweiss. In the center of the haven, an underground spring burbled up sparkling water into a brook that meandered playfully among violets and daisies.

It was magnificent. Yet somehow, the abundance of natural splendor made him feel . . . sad.

He took a step, then stopped. He clasped his arms against his stomach, trying to hug away the ache growing inside him. _How can there be so much beauty here, when the rest of the world is in so much pain?_

_Huh_?Hermione asked inside his head.

The air was so heavy with scent, it brought tears to his eyes. He removed his glasses. _What's the use_? No matter how many times he'd been applauded for beating Voldemort, here he was again, plodding through yet another of the Dark Lord's traps. Who was he fooling? The times he'd bested the villain in the past had been nothing but dumb luck. Hadn't this year demonstrated just how worthless his efforts _really_ were? The ferocious dragon statue, the enraged griffin, the electric laurel, the possessed caretaker—even the baggy sweater—each challenge had proven him to be . . . ineffectual.

_What's the sense in trying_?_ The world never stays saved._ Even if, by some fantastic, phenomenal luck, some real hero (not him) some day defeated Voldemort once and for all—the next day some other power-hungry brat would just start up the same old rigmarole all over again.

Dejected, Harry let his watery-eyed gaze wander over the profusion of blossoms. What was life anyway? Even now, all of this vibrant glory was decaying. Soon it would be dead, rotten, and then gone—as if it had never existed.

Even if the poor Muggle girl could be saved today, she could be killed tomorrow by a slip in the bath. Everybody died sometime.

"I might as well be dead myself."

_Harry!_ Hermione's voice drifted up from the gloomy depths of his consciousness. _Get hold of yourself. _

_Why? What difference would it make? _

_I know what's wrong with you. And I know what to do about it. Brew up a batch of Weltschmerz Tonic_.

He shook his head. _Why bother? What would be the point?_

_Humor me. Find a cauldron._

Harry sniffled and wiped his eyes. _If it'll make _you_ happy. _Letting his gaze drift around the garden again, he saw—behind a (rotting, decaying, pointless) rose bush—a rusty iron pot sitting on a pile of straw and twigs.

_Good. Now start a fire. Use your finger again. Sorry about the pain_.

_Pain. What do I care about pain? How can my pain compare to—_

_Get moving!_

Harry stumbled forward, then fell to his knees beside the cauldron. Sticking out his finger, he mumbled, "Lacamum Inflamaray." A flicker appeared on the tip of his fingernail, then petered out.

_Again!_

"Lacamum Inflamaray." This time three sparks sputtered into the air. One of them dropped onto a stray piece of straw. Harry stared at it. The spark's vain persistence in glowing nearly broke his heart.

_Blow on it!_

He hung his head and exhaled on the straw in a long, gloomy sigh. The glow became a small (weak, pathetic) flame. In a moment, the surrounding straw caught fire, and then the twigs. But so what? Before it could matter, the fuel would be spent.

_Spit into the pot. Come on, Harry. _

He spat. The spot of moisture sputtered.

_Now scoop about two cups of water into the cauldron from that stream. And gather a handful of eidelweiss blossoms—at least a dozen—crush them and throw them in as well. Count to fifty and add . . . ._

As Harry carried out Hermione's instructions, tears began dribbling from the corners of his eyes. With each new ingredient he added to the pot, he released a sob. His friend would be so disappointed when she saw how meaningless this potion would be in the grand scheme of things.

_Now take the three cockatrice eggs and throw them into the cauldron whole. The shells will melt in the water_.

Harry retrieved them from his pocket and cradled them in one hand. His tears splashed onto their speckled sides. _Poor little cockatrices. They'll never hatch, never live. I wish_ I _had never—_

_Harry!_

He dropped the eggs into the potion. The brew foamed, bubbling up until the froth reached the rim.

_Breathe the steam, Harry. Quick! Scoop up the foam and bury your face in it. _

That sounded like something he wanted to do—bury his face so he could have a nice, long cry.

Harry leaned over the cauldron. The fragrant steam tickled his nose. He dipped his hands into the foam and lifted a double handful to his face. As the hot bubbles warmed his skin, he could feel his body growing lighter—as if the weight of the world were being lifted from his shoulders.

He was just a little fellow in the big mass of humanity after all—and that was a _good_ thing. He didn't have to go it alone. Millicent with her present of the Djinn ball, Moaning Myrtle with her incessant reciting of Tom Riddle's runes, Hermione with her amazing store of abstruse knowledge—they'd all helped him muddle through Voldemort's maze thus far. As Millicent had told him, _Don't belittle the small victories_! If he kept slogging along, he might beat Avery yet.

_Congratulations, Harry! You're back!_

He rolled his eyes sheepishly as he settled his glasses back firmly on his nose. _Yes, Hermione. I'm back. And thank you, thank you for memorizing Bavarian Desideratum. Four trials down. One more to go_. He glanced at his plastic watch, then jumped to his feet. _Only e__ight minutes left until midnight!_

* * *

**Remember the call back to the "Memory" chapter?**


	51. Wheels

_**Chapter 51**_

**WHEELS**

Still standing in the middle of the enchanted garden, something caught Harry's eye. His jaw dropped. To his left—as large as the entrance to Hogwarts—the door to the final chamber stood open. It had been there all along, but he'd been too dispirited to notice. On top of a tall pedestal, the Muggle girl stood tied to a stake. Against the base of the pedestal leaned a broom.

And Wilhelm was nowhere in sight.

_You'll lose_, Snape's voice whispered in his mind.

_Have faith!_ Harry parroted back.

_Eh?_ Hermione asked.

_Not now_, he answered as he splashed into the brook, sprinted across some pansies, and raced through the doorway. As he entered, Wilhelm appeared in the opposite doorway—a couple of yards closer than him to the broom.

Without slowing his pace, Harry reached into his Lockit Pocket and pulled out the Bogschwarz peanut tin. He unscrewed the lid, aimed the contents at Wilhelm, then let the spring-loaded, cloth snake fly. When the Muggle prank was midway to its mark, he pointed and shouted, "Serpenvertia!"

Just as Wilhelm's hand touched the broom, the boa hit his shoulder, then coiled around his arm. The broom fell over at his feet.

_Too bad the snake's not a cobra_, Harry thought, sucking on his inflamed finger.

_Harry! I know we want to beat Slytherin, but don't you think a poisonous snake would have been going a bit too far?_

Harry ignored Hermione's comment and dove for the broom.

As he did, Wilhelm pointed his wand with his free hand and screamed, "Tarantallegra!

Harry was seized with an uncontrollable urge to dance. From the disembodied laughter he heard wafting down from wherever the Death Eaters were watching, Harry figured the dancing spell didn't qualify as _incapacitating_ according to Voldemort's interpretation of his rules.

If shimmying around like an idiot wasn't bad enough, Harry's head suddenly exploded with Hermione's words. _What am I doing, Mummy? Oh, nothing. I—of course I'm coming down to say goodbye to Grandmother. I am _too_ a good daughter. No. I don't love this blasted cat more than— Yes, I—yes. Straight away. _

Abruptly, Hermione was gone from Harry's mind. He realized she must have stopped tickling Crookshanks. _Buck up_, he told himself_. I'm nearly there._

Harry saw Wilhelm hurl the snake away and grab the broom. Using a dance move to twist his arm inside his robes, Harry finally managed to retrieve his last Muggle prank: simulated puke. Flinging it at Wilhelm, he improvised a spell: "Vomitvertia!"

Midair, the plastic transformed into a disgusting slop. It splattered across his opponent's face. In the next instant, Harry was free from the dancing spell.

Furiously, Wilhelm's right hand scraped puke out of his eyes—but his other held fast to the broom.

Harry hesitated, racking his mind for the best incantation to wrestle away the one and only means available for sailing up and rescuing the Muggle girl.

Then he remembered: _I don't need a broom. I can fly without one!_

"Cho, you're the best!" he said aloud.

Again, he wouldn't be going it alone. _Breathe deeply, _Cho's remembered words sang in his mind. _Open your thoughts, and follow me._

He crouched like a runner, took three long, quick strides, then bounded clean over the top of Wilhelm's head. The gasps, groans, and howls from above let him know the Death Eaters were aghast at his unexpected triumph.

When he landed on the pedestal, the hostage shrieked. Grasping her shoulders, he looked straight into her terror-stricken eyes. "Remember me? I'm Harry. I'm here to save you."

But before he could start unraveling the magical knot that bound her, an Imperius Curse bound him. _Not again_. As the unseen force hoisted him, he whispered, "I'll be back." The Dark Lord might drag out his obligation to release the girl, but even he wouldn't renege on a wager. In the world of witchcraft and wizardry, that just wasn't done.

Swinging through the air like a fish on a hook, Harry caught sight of Wilhelm being hauled up from the bottom of the vat as well. Then the spell ended, dumping them both on the catwalk in front of the assembled Death Eaters and the captive Ariel Daine. _Ouch_. Despite the bump, he felt great. _Whoever touches the Muggle first wins_.

For the moment, Harry had the use of his arms and legs—though the odds against escaping the twelve Death Eaters and the wannabe kept him from trying to take advantage of it. Professor Daine remained in the stiff pose of someone under an Imperius Curse, but she managed to give him a wink.

Gazing down at his beaten acolyte, Voldemort began to tsk. "Wilhelm, Wilhelm, Wilhelm. I regret to say that your showing tonight has been a disappointment. If the new order were dependent on such performances to achieve its goals, its future would be sorry indeed."

"But, my Lord, my son was ahead of that disgusting hooligan most of the way. Only at the end, when that revolting—"

"Silence!"

Avery Senior bit his lip. Wilhelm hung his head.

"I badly need a thirteenth Death Eater, yet your failure raises qualms. If you can be bested by a dabbler in the wing-it-as-you-go-along school of magic, then I have to wonder whether you're truly worthy of representing the ideals of discipline and control that are the foundation of the Ceremony of the Dark Mark."

Voldemort spread out his hands, addressing all of his followers with his sermon. "That which is magical holds dominion over that which is not. This precept is the cornerstone of our Death Eater creed. The rite of blood is necessary to affirm it. Without a Muggle to offer a dying breath, the ceremony cannot take place. In our little contest tonight, Potter has won the creature's freedom fair and square."

Harry felt jubilant. He had done it. Against all odds, he had saved the day. And hopefully he'd bought Snape and whatever wheels he'd set in motion the time they needed, too. Any minute now, help would arrive to save him and Professor Daine.

Then a smug smile spread across Voldemort's rosy-cheeked façade. With an air of benevolence, he leaned down and offered his hand. Harry frowned as the Dark Lord helped Wilhelm to his feet. The villain passed his fingers over his would-be disciple's head. When he lowered them again, the face was clean of vomit, and the brown hair was once again groomed.

"But there is one article of our doctrine, dear boy, that salvages your prospects of becoming the thirteenth member of our inner circle tonight—and it is an essential one to remember: when dealing with those outside our circle, Death Eaters do not have to play fair."

Harry sprang to his feet. "No! Everyone knows there's nothing lower than going back on a bet."

Voldemort didn't bother using magic. Instead, he smacked Harry's face so hard that he stumbled backwards and struck the catwalk's railing.

"I'm not everyone!"

As if on cue, disembodied chimes began tolling off the hours. _Midnight_. A sick feeling gripped Harry's stomach. His triumph over Wilhelm had not delayed the Ceremony of the Dark Mark at all.

Voldemort lifted his arms, spreading his black mantle like a crow's wings. When he did, the factory's lights winked out. The only light left was a spectral glow emanating from the faces of the twelve Death Eaters. With a snap of his wrist, the Dark Lord sent a spurt of the same unearthly green luminosity swirling over Harry's head. He shrank from the poisonous miasma.

"Imperio!" Voldemort shrieked, pointing his wand first at Harry, then at the vat behind him.

Locked once more by the Death Eater curse, Harry watched helplessly as the Muggle drifted over his head to alight on the catwalk at the center of the semi-circle of evil magicians.

"Cruciatus!"

This time Voldemort's spell centered on the girl alone, but the agony that started in her throat as a gurgle, then welled up into a heartrending scream, tortured Harry as well. Where was their rescue? Where were Snape and Dumbledore and whoever from _the old crowd_ were best equipped to stop these vile rites?

In unison, the wicked coven and their eager apprentice began droning in a tongue Harry didn't understand. Their pounding words set up a vibration he could feel in the catwalk. With measured steps, Wilhelm started circling the writhing girl. Obviously, he'd been taught the ritual in advance and had full foreknowledge of the sacrifice to come. Once, twice, thrice he marched around her as the intoning rose to a crescendo.

Again, Voldemort raised his wand. He inscribed a circle in the air, and the unwholesome radiance coalesced into what looked like a giant green scimitar.

"Avada—" he began.

Then, out of nowhere, a bolt of electricity crackled over the Muggle's head. The ethereal blade was gone. Wilhelm stumbled from his course and into his father. Some of the Death Eaters stopped chanting abruptly. The rest trailed off into mumbling.

"I've come just in time." The familiar voice was soft and cool, as if Snape had intruded upon Voldemort's tea party, not his murder scene.

Hope leapt up in Harry at the sight of his uncle who had unexpectedly Apparated between Voldemort and the young girl. Then bewilderment dampened it. Why had Snape come alone? And why weren't the Death Eaters attacking him? Avery the Elder and Avery the Younger both glowered at his intrusion, but Malfoy nodded in greeting.

Voldemort sighed, then wiggled his wand, turning on the factory lights. "I've been looking forward to your arrival, Severus, but I do deplore your choice of entrance."

"On the contrary. A minute later, and you would have consigned yourself to an unfortunate mistake: patching the hole in your coven with a whelp instead of reinstating the wolf."

"Who said anything about you _rejoining_?" Willimar Avery snorted. "We've been meeting regularly for nearly a year, and _now_ you show up? How come you never came before? Didn't get the call? Dark Mark on the fritz?"

Instead of snapping at his follower, Voldemort looked amused.

Willimar harrumphed. "The only reason you've come back now is that my Wilhelm snatched your bit of snatch! Right from under your big, fat, ludicrous nose."

Snape ignored his ex-chum's rant

Willimar jutted out his jaw. "Granted, you _were_ a Death Eater. But now you're just a schoolmaster—useful to bang the drum for good old Slytherin, win the house cup, rah, rah, and all that, but otherwise, you're yesterday's _Daily Prophet, _fit for lining my owl's cage, nothing more. What can you possibly do for us now?"

Voldemort cocked his head. "A touch ungracious, but the question _is_ apropos. "

The Potions master stared steadily into the Dark Lord's eyes. "I can do what Avery's spawn failed to do: kill Dumbledore. The wheels have been set in motion."

_Wheels?_ Harry gasped as if the catwalk had vanished and he were plummeting back into the abyss. _Kill Dumbledore?_ How could Professor Snape say such a thing? After all the clarifications and interpretations and illuminations Harry had gone through—after he'd been convinced beyond all shadow of a doubt that his bad tempered uncle was really a noble, misunderstood man—how could it come back to this?

_No!_ he tried to shout, but the Imperius Curse strangled it in his throat.

Just when Harry thought his horror couldn't be any more complete, he caught sight of Ariel Daine.

She was smiling.


	52. Assurances

_**Chapter 52**_

**ASSURANCES**

The second that Harry caught her eye, Professor Daine's expression switched to appropriate indignation and dismay. _But I saw what I saw_, Harry told himself. Could Ariel Daine have been the Death Eater's agent all along, bait to lure his uncle back to the Dark Lord?

"Kill Dumbledore?" Voldemort shrugged. "I expect no less. You kill him, or I kill. . . ." He tilted his head meaningfully toward Professor Daine. "Obeying my ultimatum is not the same as earning back my trust."

Snape exhaled slowly, as if giving himself time to choose the right words. "It's true that I've declined previous summons. I had become _disillusioned_ with grand causes—even yours. I cherished my detachment. But now that you have forced me out of seclusion, you must see that the favor you ask means more than bartering for a woman I fancy: it means taking sides. Irrevocably. If I do this thing, I need—"

The Muggle girl, still writhing from the Cruciatus curse, moaned.

Snape glanced at her, snapped his wand, watched her crumple to the metal deck, then turned back to the Dark Lord. "As I was saying—"

"Severus." Voldemort waggled his fingers in the air. "If we must delay the Ceremony of the Dark Mark yet again, that's no reason to delay the after party as well. I, for one, am famished." He shook his wand a couple of times, and his red velvet sitting room materialized behind him. Another flick of his wand, and the tea table appeared, this time displaying a cold midnight snack.

Voldemort settled himself comfortably, then patted the cushion next to him. Snape's black eyes flickered, taking in the situation. Then he accepted the invitation to sit at the Dark Lord's right hand. The Death Eaters fidgeted. Finally, Malfoy sniffed through his thin, patrician nose and glided around to Voldemort's other side. The rest took the hint, shuffling about until they'd each found a place. Wilhelm skulked over to a footstool near his father.

Slowly, Harry turned his eyes to the Muggle, afraid of what he'd see. After a moment of scrutiny, he assured himself that she was not dead, only deeply asleep. That was a comfort, anyway. Glancing in the other direction, he was surprised to see that although Ariel Daine still lacked control of her limbs, she was now seated on a red velvet loveseat—courtesy of his uncle? Or of Voldemort?

Assured that no one was paying attention to him, Harry took a deep breath. Then he concentrated all of his heart and soul on the Djinn ball still nestled in the Lockit Pocket against his side. His distress calls stretched far and wide: _Dobby, can you hear me? Crookshanks, where's your mistress? Bête Noire, find Dumbledore!_

"Unicorn black pudding, my favorite."

Harry looked back to see Voldemort add a slice to his croissant.

"Roddy, I think you'll enjoy the roast borogrove. Severus, will you have some flank of faun?"

Harry grimaced at the list of beasts slain to satisfy the Dark Lord's appetites. _So much for preservation of endangered magical creatures_.

Snape waved his hand in refusal. "First things first. I need assurances. If I do what you ask, my place in your inner circle must be restored. I need to know that if my role in the Headmaster's demise is suspected, I won't be left twisting in the wind."

"Before we have that discussion, I need _my_ assurances." Voldemort's cultured university accent was light and reassuring, but his icy blue eyes made clear who was in charge. "You said the wheels have been set in motion?"

"Earlier this evening, yes. Very well, then. Your assurances first." Snape trained his dark eyes on Harry. "If Potter will hand over the Djinn ball with which he is fruitlessly trying to raise an alarm, I will show you Dumbledore."

Harry's last shred of hope withered under the glares of the twelve—or was it thirteen?—Death Eaters arrayed against him.

"That's right," Snape continued. "Whoever searched him was negligent. He failed to consider that Potter might be carrying an exostantial means of portage. A common Lockit Pocket. Available for a handful of knuts at half the shops in Diagon Alley."

Avery's son stared at the floor, avoiding his father's glowering disapproval. Voldemort pursed his lips, as if annoyed at a piddling dog. Evidently, welcoming the not-so-apt pupil into his coven was looking more ill-advised by the minute—and reconsidering his errant Potions master less so. _It would have been better, _Harry thought,_ if I _hadn't_ beaten Wilhelm in the maze_.

Snape pointed his wand, and Harry felt his no-longer-secret pouch open of its own accord and his Djinn ball slide out. It bumped around under his armpit a moment, then maneuvered its way out of his robes, straight into the Potions master's outstretched palm. When Snape unwrapped the instruction sheet, the martinet voice piped up as usual.

"Lesson Seven: Prospection of Personally Significant—"

"Enough," Snape growled, crumpling the paper. "We're not schoolboys." He stuffed it inside his black robes, stifling the wadded up instructor's protests. At his command, the Djinn ball rose into the air, stopping just above the snack table. With a muttered incantation, he expanded its size until even Harry—from his position against the cat walk's railing—could clearly see Hogwarts's Great Hall. The supper had been set hastily. Instead of ranging evenly down the length of the High Table, the chairs were pulled together tightly at one end. Several students stood, nibbling sandwiches and leaning toward the staff to catch the latest news. Hagrid was there, back from visiting his mother in the Carpathian Mountains. Snape's presence indicated that the Djinn ball was showing them _earlier this evening_.

Between efficient bites of boiled beef, Headmistress McGonagall said, "The castle, grounds and environs have been extensively searched. We must resign ourselves to the likelihood that the three have been kidnapped."

Next to her, Dumbledore's face looked pasty. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. The crisis was apparently taking its toll.

Madame Pomfrey spoke to him quietly, gesturing toward his bowl.

The Headmaster shook his head slowly as if the movement pained him.

Taking a sip from a tankard, the Snape in the Djinn ball glanced at him sidelong.

"High time to contact the Ministry," McGonagall said.

"Not . . . the Ministry," Dumbledore replied weakly, then wiped a shaking hand across his forehead.

"I agree," Snape said. "Instead—"

Without warning, Dumbledore fainted, falling face forward into his soup. Teachers and students gasped—as did Harry and Professor Daine watching the scene.

_Is Professor Daine faking? She _sounds_ sincere,_ thought Harry.

"Albus!" McGonagall grasped his shoulders and pulled him upright. Broth dripped from his white beard. His head lolled to the side. Harry held his breath until he saw the Headmaster take one.

"If I can lie down a moment…" Dumbledore rasped feebly.

McGonagall and Pomfrey, one on each side, began gently helping him to his feet. Then Hagrid pushed in and scooped him into his arms as if he were a child.

"Thank you," Dumbledore murmured. "My chambers. The rest of you . . . finish your meal. I'll be fine . . . Severus? Let me . . . speak to you."

Snape rose from the table. McGonagall looked concerned but stayed with the students and staff. Madame Pomfrey bustled to keep up as the Djinn ball followed Hagrid, Dumbledore and Snape out of the Great Hall.

"Coritoxia?" Voldemort asked the Snape sitting next to him, then patted his knee. "Kudos. They'll think it's his heart. Few wizards could manage _that_ potion."

"A variation of my own, actually," Snape replied. "Coritoxia Alternatus."

"Indigestion, more like," Avery Senior mumbled.

The Snape in the Djinn ball caught up with Hagrid's long strides at the gargoyle that guarded the door to the Headmaster's quarters. Out of breath, Madame Pomfrey trotted up a moment later.

"Severus . . . Severus?" Dumbledore's voice sounded achingly old.

"Yes, Albus," Snape soothed. "I'm here."

"You must . . . go . . . . If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has taken them . . . you're the only one who can . . . find them."

Snape clutched his own arm. "Yes. The Dark Mark. It calls me."

"You're the only one . . . who can save them."

The Imperius Curse couldn't keep Harry from growling deep in his throat.

"But Albus, you're ill. _You_ need me."

"I'm old . . . . They're young . . . ."

Before Snape could argue further, Dumbledore went limp in Hagrid's arms.

"You _must_ honor his wishes," Madame Pomfrey said. "I'll do what can be done."

Snape hesitated, putting on a great show of indecision and concern. Harry felt colder than the death he could see creeping over the Headmaster's ashen face.

"As you wish," Snape said at last. "I'll make preparations to depart. There's nothing more for me to do here." He pivoted on his heel and strode out of sight.

* * *

**Any readers still out there?**


	53. Expiry

_**Chapter 53**_

**EXPIRY**

"Nothing more for me to do here'!" Voldemort clapped his hands, chuckling at Snape's words. "'Nothing more.' Oh, that's priceless."

A malicious smile crept across Malfoy's face, and he gave Snape an approving nod.

"But the old fusspot hasn't snuffed it yet!" Willimar protested.

Snape's expression remained impassive. "With Coritoxia, he'd be dead already. With Coritoxia Alternatus, whether he lives or dies hangs on my word."

Back in the Djinn ball, Harry saw Dumbledore revive long enough to whisper, "lemon lime gobstopper." The portal to his chambers opened. Hagrid carried him through, Madame Pomfrey at his heels. As it had when Harry had tried to penetrate the Headmaster's haven, after the door closed, the view in the glowing orb remained in the hallway.

"That's cheating! Why can't we see—"

"Don't be thick." Snape's first words to Avery Senior since he'd arrived held all the loathing McGonagall had said he harbored for his one-time pal. "Those rooms have been the private domain of Hogwarts's Headmasters for centuries. Each new occupant has added his own spell to thwart prying eyes. Even a Djinn ball can't penetrate really potent magic—but _my_ word can." Slowly, he turned to Voldemort. "It doesn't matter where I speak that word. In his ear, or at your side, wherever I am upon the face of the earth, Dumbledore will die. With a different word, I can restore him to vigor and health. The decision is yours."

"Severus." Voldemort's face softened with an expression Harry couldn't quite place. "You want assurances. Any I could give would be trivial. Our understanding must be deeper. You know I see you as a son. You were dead to me, yes, but today you have come back, asking for another chance. When you do this thing for me, you shall have shown yourself worthy above all others. You will be alive to me again."

"As you wish. So be it." Snape pointed his wand skyward and cleared his throat. Without further delay, without so much as a blink to show he care about the ramifications of what he was doing, he uttered one word: "Expiry."

Harry began to tremble, trying to grasp what he had just heard and seen. _Expiry_. There had to be more to it than that, some shaking of the ground, some roaring of the wind, some falling of the stars. Dumbledore couldn't be dead. Not with just one word. He couldn't be.

As if Snape's pronouncement had been a Petrificus spell, the Death Eaters had frozen, shots of liquor, slices of cheese, slivers of sandwiches halfway to their mouths. They waited noiselessly, as if also listening for the explosion of heaven and earth that would prove the greatest wizard of the last century was no more.

Even Willimar Avery sat tense and expectant. Then his scowl deepened and he shook himself. "What kind of boobs do you take us for?"

"My Lord," Snape swiveled toward Voldemort, effectively excluding Avery from his field of vision. "I do not know what is happening in the Headmaster's quarters at this moment. I only know that he is gone. If you will allow me, I should be able to show you evidence of this fact soon enough."

_Gone. Dumbledore can't be. _Harry glanced at Professor Daine. Her face had crumpled with what looked like genuine, unbridled grief. His stomach felt queasy. _Could he be gone?_

Snape pointed at the hanging orb. At first it was hard for Harry to tell what he was doing, but when McGonagall dashed up, double speed, he realized that the scene was being _fast-forwarded_. Several students and staff came and went, flashing into view, milling around, then vanishing. When the granite door rasped open and Hagrid hunched through at normal speed, Harry realized that the vision in the Djinn ball had caught up with _now_.

"What news?" McGonagall asked anxiously.

The tears streaming down the gamekeeper's face said it all. Harry groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.

"You're working some kind of dodge," Willimar muttered. "I'll believe old Bumblebore's dead when I see he's dead."

_That's it_! Relief bubbled up inside Harry. _It's an elaborate dodge. _Hadn't the Headmaster said Snape had perpetrated deceptions on the Dark Lord both crafty and perilous? Anxiously, he searched his uncle's face for a clue.

But if Snape was attempting to hoodwink his former associates, his demeanor didn't give him away. "Tradition holds that newly deceased headmasters lie in state in the rotunda that opens off the upper exit from their chambers. The preparations may take some time, but you will see his body brought there soon enough."

Willimar snorted. "If the crystal shows them trundling out the old man, slapping him on a slab, and sobbing a little, so what? Anyone can _play_ dead."

"Go and check, then," Snape replied testily. "I'm certain your fellow wizards and witches at Hogwarts will welcome your desire to pay your last respects."

"Why shouldn't we? See with our own eyes. At this distance you could pass a golem off as the dead Dumbledore."

Voldemort laughed. "Children, children. Stop bickering. For most of us, visiting the Alma Mater would be imprudent. Even Lucius and Willimar can't show up at a moment's notice without raising questions. No. Only one of our number is an appropriate emissary: Wilhelm. If he emerges from the forest with a tale of witnessing the abduction of Mistress Daine and Master Potter, of running, of hiding—of not finding his way back until a second night had passed—he'll be welcomed back with tea and sympathy. When _he_ pays his last respects, he should be able to gather all the proof we need."

Wilhelm had looked up hopefully the moment Voldemort said his name. Now he sprang to his feet. "Yes, my Lord. I'm ready."

Harry peered at Snape, desperate for a glimmer of reaction that would tell him how soon his uncle was expecting the arrival of the rescuers that would surely make sense of the weeping and wailing still filling the Djinn ball. _It's a distraction. Convincing, yes, but just a distraction._

Voldemort tapped his wand on his palm. A small bottle appeared. "Pour this into the stiff's mouth and place a parchment in the hand. If Dumbledore's true name and forebears appear on it, we can put to rest any speculations about dead ringers. Identity Potion never lies."

Wilhelm bowed and accepted the bottle.

"If magic determines the body to be Dumbledore, you will not require magic to determine he is truly dead." Voldemort spooned a smidgen of sea dragon caviar onto a biscuit and took a dainty bite. "I trust you can find yourself a long, sharp knife?"

Wilhelm clasped his hands together. "Yes, my lord. I won't let you down. I can fly to Hogwarts before dawn."

Harry didn't listen to Voldemort's last minute instructions to his devotee Instead, he stared at his uncle, trying to read his expressionless eyes. Was he concerned that Wilhelm's double-checking might expose his subterfuge? When the Identify Potion touched Dumbledore's lips, would the Djinn ball show the supposed corpse sitting up and spluttering? Or was Snape dwelling on what a sorry excuse for a man he was, yielding to the Death Eaters and murdering the mentor he'd once crowned Father Christmas? _And all for a woman who may have been in league with the Dark Lord all along_.

"Bon Voyage," Voldemort called out as Wilhelm hurried away. Then he smiled at the beautiful but nasty-looking witch sitting across from him. "Bellatrix, my dear, won't you have some centaur pâté? It's to die for."

At some point (Harry didn't know when), the strait jacket of the Imperius Curse had given way to a different spell that kept him in some kind of bubble. Though his imprisonment was no less helpless, at least he could lie down and toss and turn in an area the size of a single bed. Rather like a padded cell, the bubble also kept him from feeling the abandoned factory's cold and damp.

But Harry could not—would not—sleep. Instead, he mulled over the attempts on Dumbledore's life. Had Ariel Daine been Wilhelm Avery's back up all along? He recalled her sticking her wand into the cleaning bucket that had turned out to hold transmogrification solution. Could she have forged Hagrid's griffin request that had replaced the obliging Waldo with the mean-tempered Rex? Or woven the shock laurel into the Yule Ball crown? She had been present when Filch attacked them. Feeling a shiver run down his back, Harry recalled the Defense Against the Dark Arts master speaking in the caretaker's ear before anyone else had an opportunity to question him. Had they been gentle words liberating him from Wilhelm's hex? Or furtive commands?

_But Professor Daine always seemed so nice!_ he moaned to himself. Or had she been _too_ nice?

_But her grief when Dumbledore died looked so sincere!_ Or were her tears just more proof of what an accomplished double agent she was?

_Snape is in love with her_. What turn of events could be more questionable than that? His uncle had been ashamed of using an Adoripotion on Ariel Daine. Could his desire to do so have stemmed from her already having used one on him?

So many certainties had proven false in the last few months, Harry no longer knew _what_ to believe.


	54. Thirteen

_**Chapter 54**_

**THIRTEEN**

At dawn, Harry realized he must have dozed off for an hour after all. His glasses were clenched in his hand. He put them on. Scanning the couch, he noted that most of the Death Eaters were snoring. Willimar Avery was playing solitaire with an Exploding Snap deck—evidently determined not to rest until his boy had won his way back into the Dark Lord's good graces. Voldemort and Snape remained deep in conversation. Malfoy leaned toward them, glancing from face to face as if trying to keep up. Ariel Daine was also awake, huddled on the loveseat, legs folded to the side, apparently enclosed in a bubble, too. The Muggle girl slept fitfully, wrapped in a nightmare. As Harry watched, she sighed and flopped over.

When Harry looked at the Djinn ball, he swallowed hard. It now focused on a different scene: the marble rotunda where Professor Dumbledore lay, resplendent in one of the embroidered robes Harry remembered seeing in the high-ceilinged gallery where Draco had foiled the fourth attempt on the Headmaster's life. The light from a thousand candles bathed him in a warm, golden glow. At the moment, only Professor McGonagall stood guard, her dour face pensive, her eyes moist.

_He's sleeping, merely sleeping_, Harry told himself. He tested the height of his invisible prison, then wiggled himself into a sitting position so he could see better.

On one side of the chamber stood a pair of massive oak doors. As Harry stared at them, a smaller door cut into the bottom of one of them opened. Wilhelm Avery, the Death Eater's apprentice, shimmered a moment as he edged through.

"Headmistress," the Slytherin said humbly. "Professors Sinistra and Flitwick would like to speak with you."

McGonagall scowled. "I thought I told you to get yourself to bed, young man. You've been through a harrowing two days. It's a wonder you're not ill."

"Others have suffered more than I have. I must be strong. Before I can even think of sleeping, I need to pay homage to the Headmaster. This has been a tragic day."

At the Slytherin's earnest words, McGonagall's stern look softened. "Certainly. We must all buck up. If you could keep watch, I'd consider it a comfort. I need to see to funeral arrangements. I'll be back to relieve you as soon as I can."

"It would be an honor." Wilhelm's expression was so sincere that McGonagall patted his shoulder before making her way to the door.

"That's my boy!" Avery crowed. He began poking the other Death Eaters until all were awake to enjoy the show with him.

McGonagall shimmered as she crossed the threshold, leaving Wilhelm on his own.

Voldemort leaned forward "Now we shall see," Despite his conviviality with his one-time favorite Potions master, the Dark Lord evidently considered Wilhelm's verification of Dumbledore's death to be Snape's final test.

Harry hoped against hope that his uncle would fail it.

Despite his earlier bravado, Wilhelm approached the body cautiously. Standing over the bier, he examined Dumbledore's still face. He turned away to wiggle, then tug, the cork on Voldemort's vial. When the stopper finally popped, the Identity potion fizzed.

_Wilhelm better have a good explanation when Dumbledore catches him trying to pour _that _down his throat_, Harry told himself.

Wilhelm touched Dumbledore's lower lip. No response. He tapped the cheek. After a deep breath, he stuck his fingers into the mouth and pried open the jaw. Quickly, he upended the bottle and emptied it. The body remained motionless.

Without wasting a moment, Wilhelm worked a scrap of parchment between the stiff hands folded solemnly across Dumbledore's chest. Immediately, the sound of a quill on paper told them that the Headmaster's lineage was being revealed. When the scratching stopped, Wilhelm retrieved the parchment. He read it silently, his lips moving. He looked up with a grin. "It's Dumbledore, all right," he announced to his unseen Death Eater audience.

As Wilhelm read off Dumbledore's wizard pedigree through seven generations to the applauding Death Eaters, Harry chanted silently to himself, _Anyone can play dead. Anyone can play dead_.

Then Wilhelm reached into his student's robes and pulled out a long, carving knife. The steel blade glinted in the candlelight.

Harry gritted his teeth as his nails cut into his palms.

Wilhelm pulled back the ceremonial robes, revealing a wrinkled, ashy gray chest. The Headmaster didn't move. He thumped the old flesh once, just above the heart.

"Here goes," Wilhelm said. Then he thrust.

When the blade pierced through, Ariel Daine cried out. At the sound, Snape bit his lower lip and looked aside. As Harry stared at the knife, now plunged to the handle through the once noble heart, all hope drained away. His uncle's shamed response provided the only confirmation Harry needed: the figure they were viewing _was_ Dumbledore, and Dumbledore _was_ dead.

How soon before he and the Muggle girl now staring at the Djinn ball with terror-stricken eyes would join him?

In the midst of toasting with the champagne the Dark Lord had conjured for their pleasure, Avery ventured, "My son has redeemed himself, hasn't he?"

"Yes, yes, quite," Voldemort replied, not bothering to face his flunky. "He's proven himself useful after all. One day when we have an opening . . . ."

The doting father opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. When Snape allowed him a brief supercilious smile, Avery swallowed and said, "Yes, my lord."

"Let's drink to our Potions master. Brother Severus may have needed some coaxing, but he has come back to us. He was lost, but now he is found. May he never stray from us again."

The Death Eaters clinked their crystal champagne glasses together.

"In spirit, he will remain with us always. But now, regretfully, it's time to bid him adieu and return him in the flesh to Hogwarts with his lady love." Voldemort winked.

At his words, Ariel Daine sprang up from the red velvet loveseat and pressed her face against her bubble. Furiously, she pounded on its unseen side. "I'll never be yours, Severus Snape. Never in a billion, trillion years. You're horrid, despicable, treacherous, and no sort of gentleman."

Snape's posture remained rigid, but his face twitched with each of her words.

Voldemort chuckled. "Mist of Delusion will take care of that nicely. A little memory rearrangement, and she'll be purring in your hands in no time."

"Never!" Ariel shouted, but Harry saw apprehension on her face.

Voldemort pointed his wand, and blue vapor began to fill Professor Daine's bubble. Through the mists, Harry could see her eyelids drooping and her head nodding. She swooned back on the loveseat.

"And the brat as well," Snape murmured.

"Him?" Voldemort sounded surprised. "Surely, you can leave him to me."

Snape's black-eyed gaze slid over to Harry. "Nothing would please me more than to be rid of him. Potter has been a thorn in my heel since the day he walked into my classroom. But if your plan is to set me up at Hogwarts as your instrument, I'm afraid I must bring him back, too."

Voldemort's jolly Oxford don face looked annoyed. "You've brightened my day considerably by getting rid of Dumbledore, but getting rid of Harry Potter is a long anticipated treat as well. Surely, you won't deny me?"

Snape's gaze lingered on Harry as if he were imagining the slow tortures by which he'd enjoy seeing him die. Then he sighed. "Everyone knows how much I despise the brat. If he is murdered, I would be the first suspect. If I come back without him, you might as well send me to Azkaban yourself. Much good I'll do you there."

"Azkaban? You'd never even be charged. Fudge is a simpleton. He'll swallow any story that will allow him to think I'm still defeated. And we have allies in the Ministry. Many allies. They'd quash any accusation."

A slow smile spread across Snape's face. "Tempting. Very tempting. But . . . the brat has friends. You would never convince _them_. If I'm at all associated with the loss of their precious Harry Potter, they'll blame me entirely. My every move would be scrutinized. I'd be useless to you. Whereas if I _rescue_ him, my position as the wizard to trust would be secured—once and for all. _I'd_ be the one celebrated. Even Gryffindor would hail me as their hero. The universal approbation might even bring about your dream of installing a Death Eater as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Think how useful I would be to you then."

Voldemort sighed. "All right. Your call. Take Potter."

"And," Snape added, "the Muggle."

"Oh, surely there's no need for that. Allow us _some_ sport."

Snape inclined his head. "I regret to say it's necessary. The Ceremony of the Dark Mark was initiated. Wilhelm circled the girl the full three times. The spells were cast. If the Muggle were to die by a Death Eater's hand now, Wilhelm would become your coven's newest member. If it is your desire to replace me, then go ahead. If not, she must leave here unharmed."

Voldemort rubbed his thumbnail across his upper lip. "Logical. Perfectly logical. I'd almost forgotten why you're so valuable to our little circle. All right, the Muggle too—though the creature will require full amnesia."

"As you wish," Snape said, pointing his wand at the girl. Her bubble clouded over with a pinkish mist.

Then Voldemort aimed his wand at Harry, and a sickly, sweetish smell filled his nose. A blue fog blocked out everything. _I won't forget_, he vowed. Just as he felt himself slipping out of consciousness, the Dark Lord invaded his head. And his form was hideous: a jackal with octopus tentacles for arms, a skull for a head and a snake for a tongue. With a gasp, Harry scooped up all his memories of the last two days and hightailed it down one of the corridors of his mind.

* * *

**10 hours to write, 10 seconds to leave a comment**


	55. Elephant

_**Chapter 55**_

**ELEPHANT**

_I can't let him catch me_. As Professor Snape had warned Professor Daine's Defense Against the Dark Arts class so long, long ago, the magician with the dark purposes gibbering at Harry's back would not be gentle.

As he rounded a corner, a recollection tumbled off the top of his armful. He slowed to pick it up—until he heard the Dark Lord's snarls gaining on him. Gritting his teeth, he resumed top speed. Behind him, the stray thought whimpered as the intruder fell upon it, ripping it to pieces and working it into a new form. _I'll never recall it_.

With the memory re-arranger briefly occupied, Harry darted up halls, down stairs, and around twisting passageways, searching for a way to put it off his track. At last, he spied a chute the size of a fox's hole. He jumped. Down, down, he slid. But just when he thought he'd found the perfect escape, he hit bottom. Instead of safety, he'd chosen a trap. From the passage above, he could hear the creature's rumbling coming closer. He hunkered down, paralyzed with dread. He couldn't climb back up now. His only hope was that the beast would pass him by. For a moment, silence. Then he heard a horrible snuffling. He shrank as small as he could, careful not to make a sound. Then the racket of stone fracturing and crumbling reverberated in his ears. Fear seized him. The monster was widening the shaft to get at him.

Frantically, Harry began scrabbling with one hand at the wooden hatch beneath him, clasping his remembrances with the other. Just when he was about to give up, he heard a crack. He kicked the wood hard with his boot—once, twice, three times—until the trapdoor splintered and he tumbled down to the floor below.

Still clinging to his memories, Harry set off running again.

_I can't keep this up. The monster won't stop until it's caught me. _Snape's dictum on shielding one's thoughts from an evil wizard came back to him. _It takes a certain amount of _cunning. _Mere _bravery _won't cut it._

Racing blindly through a subterranean tunnel, Harry began juggling the cradled memories—creating duplicates as Snape had described in his long-ago lecture. He didn't have a Grand Master's potion of choice to fortify him, but he did have his many years of practice using his imagination to keep sane under the Dursleys' stairs. As his burden doubled, he began panting. Now to hide the originals where the Dark Lord wouldn't find them.

Harry whipped around a bend, lunged down another alleyway, and cut into an out-of-the-way nook. Hastily, he sorted out the most essential events: Wilhelm's attack in the Forbidden Forest; Voldemort's new façade; the faces of the eleven witches and wizards supporting him; the interrupted rite of the Dark Mark; Snape's offer to kill Dumbledore; the word that had done the deed; and Wilhelm's plunge of the knife. The duplicates, Harry kicked back into the open. He did the same with his memories of the five tests in his face-off with Wilhelm: one set he would surrender, one he'd protect.

An earth-shattering noise from the way he'd come jolted him to a stop. The intruder had smashed through the shaft. For an instant, Harry couldn't breathe. When he heard the snarling and snuffling growing fainter, he took a gulp of air. The monster was going the other way—at least for now. He began divvying up originals and copies at double speed: his conferences via Djinn ball, his search of his cell, Voldemort's tea party. He was just tossing his last duplicate onto the sacrifice pile—Crookshank's savoring of the cooking smells in the Granger's kitchen—when he heard the fiend coming his way.

Steeling himself against his fear, Harry backed out of the alcove.

_Pink Elephant_, he said. His Patronus of Memory, created to offset Professor Daine's gentle spell, materialized before him. The pachyderm fastened its determined gray eyes upon him, nodded, then settled down over the original memories as gently as a mother hen brooding over her chicks.

_Hold fast_, Harry told him. Then he scrambled to pick up the spares, stuffing them into his robes, his pants, his shoes and hiding one in his Lockit Pocket for good measure. He had to dupe the Dark Lord into believing that _these_ were the memories he treasured. As his Djinn ball instruction sheet had taught him to do with Hermione, he needed to create a _plausible alternative_.

As Harry resumed jogging down the passage one last time, he could feel his muscles trembling. If his tired legs could just manage another zigzag or two before the memory re-arranger caught up with him, he'd be all right. He tripped and crashed into the wall. Tears came to his eyes, and he let them. Exhausted, he stumbled a few more yards. An eerie howl of victory told him the beast had sighted him. As it bounded forward, he dragged himself a couple more steps. When he felt hot breath on the nape of his neck, he knew he could go no further. He fell to his knees, hunched over his recollections.

_No!_ he shouted with his last ounce of strength. _They're mine!_

The vicious tentacles slid over Harry's shoulders, under his armpits, and around his sides, wrestling his memories from his grasp. He balled up as tightly as he could, yet still the octopus arms insinuated themselves into the folds of his robes, inside his socks, and into his Lockit Pocket.

_No!_ Harry cried, over and over until the repetition sounded despairing in his own ears. One by one, the happenings of the last two days were dragged from him until his perception of them was at the mercy of the Dark Lord.

The first image to go was that of Wilhelm—erased from the Forbidden Forest, from the broom ride, from the maze. For an instant, Harry couldn't picture who had captured him. Then he had it again: Peter Pettigrew. Harry scowled, recalling the moment his parents' betrayer had slung him over the handle of his broom.

His Djinn ball. He'd thought he'd had it with him, but no—he'd left it on his bed at Hogwarts. Stupid boy. At least he'd been brave, challenging Voldemort to a contest for the Muggle girl. No, that had been wishful thinking. Challenge He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? As if. He'd been too cowardly.

But no, it wasn't He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named he'd been afraid of—it had been the Death Eaters. He could see all eleven of them lined up before him. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Avery—this time the Ministry of Magic would have to believe his accusations of their disloyalty since Professor Daine would be backing him up. No, wait a minute. He'd been mistaken. Only four Death Eaters had held him and Professor Daine prisoner—the three LeStranges, fugitives from Azkaban, and Pettigrew. That gang was dangerous, all right—so long as they concocted plots to return to their former glory—but all of their schemes were in vain. None of their former compatriots had rallied to their cause. Their Dark Lord had not returned. How could he have been so silly as to think he had?

Harry's awareness of the castle of his mind faded into a blue void. As he drifted along, the images came clearer and clearer: the broken down cottage on the Northumberland coast where the villains had holed up, the Muggle girl they'd kidnapped to be their servant, Professor Daine standing courageously against their threats. He remembered everything in vivid detail—even the hours he'd spent cowering in the corner, sniveling and whining not to be hurt.

And then had come his salvation. Harry took a deep breath, picturing that glorious moment when Professor Severus Snape (Twelve Substantive Consummate Omnifarious Wizarding Levels with Honors, Certified Public Concoctionist, Grand Master Apotropaist, Head of Slytherin House, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry) had blasted in the door to the cottage. "Get back, you devils," his savior had proclaimed. "You shall not have them."

Harry giggled. He'd never seen four thugs take to their brooms so fast. They'd fled through the back door even as Professor Snape zapped away the Petrificus Spell that bound him and Professor Daine. The Muggle he'd kept under the Imperius Spell—for her own good, at least until she'd been returned safely home.

Which was exactly what Professor Snape and Professor Daine were in the middle of working out now.

Harry blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming down on the snow-laden village square where he stood patiently listening to his elders confer over how to handle the return of his fellow captive.

Professor Snape shot him an assessing look.

"You seem confused," Professor Daine offered kindly. "You must have dozed off just before Severus Apparated us."

"From—from the cottage?" Harry asked doubtfully, straightening his glasses.

"Yes, the cottage." She smiled. "And once we see this poor girl back to her door, Severus will Apparate us back to Hogwarts."

The young Muggle stood docilely between them, her eyes vacant.

"Very well, then," Professor Snape murmured to Professor Daine. "You win. Leaving two days completely blank would be traumatizing. Lost on the moors, it is." With that, he bent down to the girl's ear and began to weave the tale. The child had wandered off—something she was never, ever to do again. She'd spotted a hare and foolishly run after it. Before she'd realized it, she'd gone astray. If she hadn't found that cow shed stocked with hay to sleep in during the cold snowy night, she surely would have frozen to death.

Even to Harry, the professor's alternative sounded eminently plausible. Of course, you'd have to be a susceptible Muggle to actually fall for memory rearrangement like that. Every now and then, Professor Daine interjected a detail—a moment of ingenuity, finding alder berries to eat; a feat of bravery, lobbing rocks at a marten; an instance of wonder, gazing up at the stars. As the adventure drew to a close with finding a trail, coming out on the highway, and finally making her way to her own village, the girl began to smile for the first time since Harry had seen her.

Professor Daine patted the child on the back and whispered, "Get along, now. Your Mama's waiting for you."

The Muggle began walking. Then she caught sight of her front hedge and broke into a gallop. As she called out to her mother, the door swept open and a middle aged housewife shrieked with joy and rushed outside. She hoisted her daughter over the gate, bundled her into her arms, and started to cry.

Professor Snape turned away from the happy reunion. Without further ado, he gripped Harry's shoulder and Professor Daine's, muttered a spell, and whisked them away. This time, Harry was aware of tumbling along the channels of inter-dimensional space that magical folk used to Apparate. Crackling noises and twinkling lights whizzed past. Just when he was about to be sick to his stomach, he and the professors popped onto the porch between the two marble dragons.

_Hogwarts_. Relief swept through him. It was good to be back. What a story he had to tell. As he beamed at the valiant Professor Snape striding off to open the door, gratitude overwhelmed him. His uncle was a true hero.

Without warning, something thwacked Harry's back. Looking over his shoulder, he saw no one. Then he became aware of a presence created by his mind: a pink elephant. The undulating trunk slapped him on one cheek and then the other. _Snap out of it!_ the pachyderm trumpeted.

And then Harry remembered. Every last horrendous, sickening, heartbreaking detail. _Professor Dumbledore is dead!_ he wailed to himself. He turned to face the steps that led to the bleak, ice-encrusted gardens so that Snape wouldn't see his misery.

"Come in from the cold," said the rotten, degenerate, reprehensible villain. "I have bad news."

* * *

**Please comment!**


	56. Vigil

_**Chapter 56**_

**VIGIL**

When Snape sat them down in the empty Great Hall and informed them of Dumbledore's passing, Harry finally allowed himself to succumb to the wretchedness he'd felt since his memories had come flooding back. But every sob was tempered by thoughts of revenge.

Professor Daine buried her face in her arms, bawling. Sitting at the high table beside her, Harry dashed tears from under his glasses with one hand and stroked her back with the other. He wondered how he ever could have doubted her. Snape stationed himself across from them, his forehead propped in his hands, his eyes dry, his mouth grim, his thoughts kept to himself.

_Just you wait_, Harry told him silently as the minutes ticked by. _Just you wait_.

At last, Snape grimaced as if he could bear no more—whether of Ariel's crying or his own guilt, Harry couldn't tell. "Food?" he asked.

Harry frowned. He couldn't remember—literally couldn't remember—when he'd last eaten. _If that's the memory Voldemort destroyed, then providence really is on my side_. Whenever it had been, he felt too sick to his stomach to eat now. He shook his head.

"Oh, no," Ariel Daine wailed. "I couldn't eat either. Not a bite."

"Sleep, then. You must sleep."

"No, I couldn't. Not until—not until I see him." Ariel Daine raised her head from the table. "You agree, Harry? Not until we see him?" Blinking away her tears, she looked back at Snape. "He's laid out, isn't he? Somewhere? For viewing?"

Snape sighed. Then he nodded. Without words, he pushed back from the table. Before the murderer could come around to lay his hands on poor Professor Daine, Harry hooked his arm around her and pulled her to her feet.

But clearly she didn't recall Snape's part in the tragedy. She broke from Harry, ran to the villain, and crushed her whimpering face against his chest. He inhaled sharply, but swept an arm around her to hold her up.

Turning, he murmured, "Follow me."

Harry glared at his back, wishing his eyes could burn a hole in it. _Just you wait_.

After countless corridors, several staircases, and numerous turns, Snape stopped in front of a pair of massive, carved doors held shut by a heavy chain. One arm supporting Professor Daine, he extended his free hand to a brass knob set into a smaller panel. It turned easily, and the panel swung inward.

"This way," he said and helped Ariel Daine through.

When Harry followed Snape into the domed rotunda, his vision blurred a moment—an effect, no doubt, of his watery eyes—focusing again on a couple of dozen mourners showing reverence to the fallen sage. On one side, he saw Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout and Madame Hooch standing solemnly with the head boy and head girl from each house. The attendants on the other side he didn't know. Their traveling cloaks identified them as visitors, but their hoods kept their faces hidden. Resident or guest, it didn't matter. Everyone in the room centered their attention on the cold, still body of Professor Albus Dumbledore.

Gazing at the beloved, gentle face, Harry bit his lip to keep from breaking down. He hadn't remembered the Headmaster looking quite this old and frail. The poison that killed him had added more wrinkles, but it hadn't marred the look of wisdom, generosity and kindness that identified Dumbledore more surely than any potion ever could.

_I'll avenge you,_ Harry swore silently. _I'll give your murderer what for._

But who would believe him? Not Ariel Daine, still leaning and weeping against Snape. If she insisted that the Potions master had rescued them from four intransigent Death Eaters in a Northumberland cottage, who would believe his story that the villain had traded Voldemort their lives for Dumbledore's? Surely, not Professor McGonagall who'd looked askance at Harry that pre-Christmas supper for his suspicions about Snape. Surely, not Hagrid who relied fondly on his reminiscences of mutual respect.

Slowly, Harry raised his eyes to the hooded visitors. Were these the Headmaster's oldest friends, witches and wizards of advanced years and broad experience who might give credence to his zealously defended memories and conduct whatever magical investigations might be available for post-mortem detection of Coritoxia Alternatus?

He took a hesitant step toward them. Then Headmistress McGonagall hissed, "Harry, come here."

At first, the twelve somber strangers gave him no notice. Then the second one from the left raised his index finger discreetly at his side. As Harry stared at it, hoping for a sign, the wizard shook it three times, then dropped his hand.

Harry blinked. Had he just been given a fatherly _No, no, no?_

Confused, he backed away. Then he hurried around the bier to Professor McGonagall and took up his position between her and Professor Daine. He hung his head gravely, pondering what he should—could—do next.

After what seemed an eternity of standing, Ariel Daine's knees buckled. She wobbled against Harry. When he reached out to steady her, she toppled the other way. Snape grabbed her before she could fall. Immediately, McGonagall was in front of her, pinching her cheeks and peering under her droopy eyelids.

"Poor thing. All spent. She needs sleep."

"No," Professor Daine answered faintly. "I need . . . licorice wands."

"Licorice wands." McGonagall clicked her tongue, obviously not as convinced of the candy's restorative power as her young colleague. "As you say. Let's get you down to your rooms."

"No. Not my rooms. Albus's. I gave him the rest of my stash—" Daine sobbed once "—for Christmas."

McGonagall and Snape exchanged a glance that Harry couldn't read.

"Yes, of course," the Potions master conceded. "You must lie down. It might as well be there."

"Harry, too," Daine murmured. "He's had a rough time. He needs a licorice wand, too."

Snape blew out his breath but made no objections when Harry followed him, McGonagall and Daine to one of the raised ovals of etched marble that patterned the rotunda's walls. When they stopped in front of it, the scratches that resembled a griffin seemed to come to life. Professor McGonagall stood on tiptoes to whisper the password into the animal's ear. The stone door scraped open. Harry followed the three professors inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realized he was in a chamber he'd never seen before: the Headmaster's bedroom.

The red oak paneling the walls and embossed copper crowning the ceiling spoke of centuries of tradition, but the homey patchwork quilt scrunched up on the bed and the well-thumbed book lying open, spine up, on the night table were pure Dumbledore. The fire that an elderly elf clad in a green-and-red loden suit was just lighting on the brick hearth added to the impression that the room's occupant was not dead and gone, only temporarily away. A glimpse of the dearly departed through the still open portal, however, reminded Harry anew that he would never share a hot frothy butterbeer with the Headmaster again. The sight prompted fresh tears to his eyes.

Professor Daine's reaction to the room was altogether different. Just entering the Headmaster's comfy-looking quarters seemed to have restored her composure. She declined Snape's offer of the room's lone rocking chair. He inspected her sidelong, then released her elbow. For a moment, he stood awkwardly beside her. Then he folded his arms inside his robes and paced over to examine a miniature portrait of a youthful red-haired witch.

McGonagall strode purposefully to a scarred oak bureau. "Licorice wands. I saw the canister here somewhere."

When Harry glanced again at Ariel Daine, he saw her gazing impatiently at the portal. When the marble oval finally grated across it, she seemed to relax. When a painting on their side—Hogwarts Castle at sunrise—slid shut, she broke into a grin, and he frowned with bewilderment.

She gave him a thumbs up, then tilted her head jauntily toward Snape. "Well, did I look convincing?"

Slowly, Snape turned to stare at her. His forehead creased, as if he were still trying to make out the words she'd just said. "Convincing? What—what are you talking about?"

"_You_ know." Professor Daine struck a pose of melodramatic alarm. "'You're horrid, despicable, treacherous and no sort of gentleman!'"

McGonagall stopped her rummaging of the bureau's top drawer. She jerked around to gape at her fellow professor. Even the old elf paused, kindling still in hand, and cocked an oversized ear toward the no-longer-mourning young woman.

Ariel Daine's hazel eyes danced as she looked from Snape to McGonagall. Dramatically, she stabbed her finger in the air. "'Never!'" Slowly, her attitude of indomitable righteous indignation faded into a sheepish smile. "_That_ might have been a bit much. I tend to get carried away by amateur theatrics."

_She remembers. And she's letting Snape know she remembers_. Harry froze, uncertain whether Professor Daine was just foolhardy or in complete forfeit of her senses. If Snape knew they could expose him, there was no telling what he would do.

Oblivious to the risk now filling Harry with silent dread, Professor Daine sauntered up to Snape. Playfully, she walked her fingers up the front of his black robes. "But my act was school girl stuff compared to yours. You were fantastic. If I didn't know you so well, I'd have sworn you were a turncoat. For the life of me, I can't imagine how you pulled it off."

Snape looked as disorientated as Harry felt. "Pulled off . . . what?"

Dane gave him a mischievous smirk. "Don't tease me, honey. I'm dying to know. How in the name of all that's magical did you pull off faking Albus's death?"

* * *

**Please (did I say pleeeeaasssse?) comment.**


	57. Performance

_**Chapter 57**_

**PERFORMANCE**

A stunned hush followed Ariel Daine's question. Slowly, Snape raised a hand to cover his open mouth. McGonagall compressed her lips, as if stumped for a response. When the elf finally turned toward her, his eyes were saucer-sized.

_Daine's in denial._ Such Muggle psychological terms were not often used in the world of magic, but Harry could think of no other explanation. She remembered Voldemort but not Snape's betrayal or Wilhelm's proof of it. Instead of the Dark Lord rearranging her memory, she'd done it to herself.

Professor Daine broke the silence with a giggle. "I must confess, when you first waltzed in, announcing you'd 'Kill Dumbledore,' I nearly gave away the whole show. You told that whopper with such a straight face that I'm afraid I grinned. I knew you had some deliciously clever plan up your sleeve. Luckily, Harry caught my eye before any of those scalawags saw. I think I hid my true feelings pretty well after that."

_But you're making a fine mess of it now_, Harry thought, and glanced nervously at Snape. Voldemort's reinstated Potions master continued to appear dumbfounded. _How long before he starts machinating how to fix this kink in the Dark Lord's designs?_

At last Snape managed, "You—you remember. How?"

"Oh, by using my _speculative mentalist theories_. I think that's what you called them." Professor Daine cocked her head coyly. "I _did_ tell you I have a Doctorate in Paracognition, didn't I?"

"Yes, but—I never dreamed—that's astonishing. Despite being under the influence of Mist of Delusion, you repelled Lord Voldemort—cold, without a preventive potion, an amulet, a charm, anything."

Ariel Daine blushed. "I studied four years under Drs. N. Curzon and Wardov. After all that, if I couldn't con a first level assault from a wizard who didn't know I'd had some training, Lost Bayou Institute for the Magical Arts and Sciences ought to stop handing out degrees." She patted her short fluffy hair. "Of course, it didn't hurt that the old scoundrel wasn't expecting much of a fight. Sometimes it's _useful_ being blonde."

McGonagall emitted a brief snort. Harry darted her a glance. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn his housemistress was stifling laughter. But surely the news that he and Daine had been with Voldemort was too shocking for her to find anything funny about it.

"But do you know who's _really_ astonishing? That young man there." Daine grinned over her shoulder at Harry. "He didn't knuckle under either, and he's self taught."

As Snape's black eyes flickered over to him, Harry saw skepticism, then derision. "Him? You're mistaken. He's baffled. He has no idea what you're talking about." That certainty seemed to restore some of the Potions master's self-assurance. With a discreet tug, he straightened his black robes, then raised his pointed chin.

Snape's superior manner demolished any intentions Harry had of playing dumb. "I don't, do I? How about these ideas: 'Have faith,' 'the wheels are in motion,' 'I've come just in time,' 'it means taking sides,' 'I need assurances,' 'Coritoxia Alternatus,' 'Expiry'?"

Instead of contemptuous, Snape's expression became appalled. "You _do_ know." His mouth worked a moment before more words came. "But _you_ can't even block a simple Memory Charm."

"You're talking about my little classroom demo when Harry said 'blue monkey'?" Professor Daine shrugged. "That was just a wee white fib to spare Hermione's feelings. Kind of sweet, actually."

Harry folded his arms. If he hadn't knuckled under to the Dark Lord, he certainly wasn't going to do so to his servant. "I remember _everything_. You rejoined the Death Eaters. You're Voldemort's favorite Potions master again. He sees you as a son."

At the recitation of Snape's crimes, Professor Daine broke into gleeful laughter. "Oh, Harry. Wasn't Severus magnificent? He really had that rascal going: 'He was lost, but now he is found.' In another minute, Voldemort would have been killing the fatted griffin for him."

Snape shook his head. "You remember. All of it. Yet you don't believe Albus is dead."

Professor Daine rolled her eyes. "Well, either you faked the whole thing, or you went weak-kneed before a bunch of bullies and concocted some farfetched, new-fangled, slap-dash poison to murder the man you most trust and admire. Which alternative _should_ I believe?"

During the silence that followed, Harry looked from one professor to another. Daine smiled at Snape. He studied her, then ran his fingers through his lank black hair as if that might help him figure out what to do next.

Looking bemused, Professor McGonagall let the elf place the canister of licorice wands in her hands. She held it a moment. Then she pulled out a long stick and took a therapeutic bite.

As Harry regarded the others, the truth slowly dawned on him. He faced away and bit his lower lip. Pressing a hand against his forehead, he grimaced. What was _wrong_ with him? Professor Daine had read the signs accurately; he hadn't. Just like Professor Dumbledore had predicted, he'd misjudged the Potions master yet again. Minerva McGonagall had had it right all those years ago when she'd been Head Girl. Severus Snape wasn't nice, but he was good.

Harry took a few self-composing breaths. He straightened his glasses. Bringing a chastened smile to his face, he turned back around. "Both Professor Daine and I remember everything, and we _still_ can't figure out how you did it. Clearly, you _wouldn't_ kill Professor Dumbledore, but his remains are in the rotunda." He raised his eyebrows. "What's going on?"

Harry heard a soft, child-pitched cough. He glanced down at the room's occupant he'd have least expected to provide the answer.

"A third alternative entirely," the elf piped up. "Professor Dumbledore _is_ dead, as Master Avery proved with his identity potion and his knife. He just isn't dead today."

In the renewed silence that followed that inexplicable explanation, Harry felt lightheaded. Swaying slightly on his feet, he watched the old elf push up an overstuffed chair next to the rocker. When he began dragging over a cozy sofa, McGonagall quickly put the licorice wands on the bureau and went to help. As the elf started toward a teacart Harry knew hadn't been in the room before, McGonagall hurried past to fetch it for him.

The faintness that had come over Harry at the elf's cryptic words became absolute wooziness when he glimpsed the three-tier display of shortbread, blueberries, scones, clotted cream, apple muffins, crumpets, lemon curd, apricot tarts and Linzer torte. As far as he could remember, he hadn't eaten a bite since Voldemort's tea party the day before.

The elf gave him a kindly smile. "First we fill the body, then the head. You're owed an explanation." Then he pulled himself up into a second overstuffed chair that looked like Dumbledore's favorite from his office downstairs. When he pressed back against the cushions, the clog shoes extending from his lederhosen, argyle-sock clad legs didn't quite reach the end of the seat.

Professor Daine touched Snape's shoulder and went over to the sofa. When Snape opted for the other chair, McGonagall sat beside her. That left Harry the rocker, which he accepted gratefully.

"I expect we're all famished," the Headmistress observed, pouring everyone's tea and piling everyone's plate with treats without bothering to ask for preferences. Then she leaned back in her chair and let the crockery pass itself around.

Unlike Voldemort's delicate china, the tea service was thick, amber-glazed ceramic ware. A couple pieces were chipped, but they all appeared well loved. Harry caught his cup and saucer and was delighted when his plate settled itself on his lap. By the time his companions finished stirring their tea, he'd already consumed half his meal. With food in his stomach, common sense started returning to his brain.

"'He isn't dead today,'" Harry repeated. "That means the viewing of the body—" He let out a whoop and nearly dropped his plate. "It's in the future! Temporal Transfiguration! Professor McGonagall, you moved the time for the entire rotunda to some point in the future! That's why we saw a shimmer whenever anyone came or went. You used your new Time Turner. The one you showed us in class. Brilliant!" _No wonder Professor Dumbledore looked more wrinkled._

As she sipped her tea, Harry could see McGonagall's dour gray eyes looked pleased. "So, you _did_ attend to your lessons," she said as she lowered her cup to her saucer. "Severus's brainstorm, actually. He recalled that several months ago, Sybil had a premonition of Albus's eventual passing. He'd taken pains to persuade her to keep it to herself, but now he saw the information's usefulness."

Harry caught his uncle's eye. Snape's oblique gaze confirmed that Professor Trelawney's prophecy was the one she'd tried to impart to him, Ron and Hermione walking back from the library so many, many nights before.

Snape sighed, then shooed his untouched plate back to the tea trolley. "At the time she called it 'Doom! Heartbreak! A sight no mortal woman should have to bear!' Exactly the kind of presentiment that encumbers rather than enlightens. Yesterday, however, under pressure to provide Albus's corpse, I prevailed upon Sybil to show us just where in time we could find it."

"We were scrupulous about working _with_ the prophecy," McGonagall added. "We didn't distract ourselves hunting for intercepts or contriving divergent sequences. In fact, Albus wrote instructions for his future funeral that enforce what Sybil saw in her vision. The grand doors must remain locked in favor of the smaller portal. The attendants must remain hooded."

"I get it," Daine said, glancing admiringly from McGonagall to Snape. "So Voldemort and his gang won't see people appearing and disappearing when they cross the threshold or catch our younger and older selves staring at each other."

Recalling the mysterious visitor's wagging finger, Harry's hand froze, a slice of torte halfway to his mouth. "I think I gave myself a warning not to blow the secret."

"Possibly," the elf squeaked. "Quite possibly."

As he savored the gooey black currant filling and melt-in-your-mouth hazelnut crust, Harry speculated on what his adult self looked like under the hood. He suspected that was a view of the future his uncle would consider encumbering. Taking a sidelong glance at the elf, he began to wonder whether there wasn't something familiar about the fine lines radiating from the corners of the oversized eyes.

"The headmasters of Hogwarts are interred in that same rotunda behind the oval reliefs," McGonagall continued. "We carved Albus's epigraph soon after midnight. Then I pushed the room forward. Once his funeral is over, I'll return the chamber to the present. The epigraph will remain, but the tomb will be empty."

"Ingenious," Daine murmured.

"Thank you." A smile twitched the corners of the Headmistress's mouth. "As part of the plan to make Severus look treacherous, he broke the charms that protect Hogwarts at large from unauthorized remote viewing. That's why You-Know-Who could watch us in the Djinn ball. Tonight, as the funeral guests are leaving, I'll be 'shocked' to discover the rift. As a final act, we'll recast the spells."

The elf's eyes sparkled. "And thus will end Hogwarts's command performance for Voldemort and his Death Eaters."

Dane drained her teacup and sent it back for a refill. "You all worked a remarkable flim-flam, but you're leaving out the most important detail: where _is_ Albus?"

"I think I know," Harry said, fixing his eyes on the uncharacteristically articulate, self-confident elf sharing tea with them. "He's hiding in plain sight."

* * *

**Only three more chapters. Time to comment?**


	58. Eight

_**Chapter 58**_

**EIGHT**

Snape groaned. "What a feeble conspiracy this must be if every last detail can be laid bare in one hour."

"Oh, I think we've let slip a few hints," the elf said.

As Harry continued to gaze, the creature opened his hand to reveal a yellow medicine bottle. _Reversal pills_.

For a diminutive elf, the yellow caplet he plucked from the bottle was oversized. He took a big swig of tea to wash it down. As with Sirius, his body began to vibrate.

Professor Daine let out a startled, "Oh!" and shrank back against the sofa.

The elf's pointed ears retracted, and his body grew. As his head reshaped itself, his wispy hair thickened, then lengthened. The loden clothing spun itself into a more capacious, darker garment. The eyes contracted to human size and half-moon glasses materialized in front of them. In no more than a twinkling, Headmaster Dumbledore sat before them—in all his kindly faced, snowy-haired, experience-aged glory.

"The restoration looked painless," McGonagall observed. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Severus."

Snape steepled his fingers in front of his long nose. "To proceed directly from a human-to-human-to-human trial to a human-to-elf-to-human trial without first conducting toxicity experiments in rats goes against principles of sound research, despite the demands of an emergency situation such as this." He shook his head. "That it worked is sheer dumb luck."

"Polyjuice in a pill!" Professor Daine exclaimed, then beamed at Snape.

"For some time now, Severus has kept a vat of Polyjuice constantly simmering—never knowing when a need such as this will arise," Dumbledore said. "Hair is not abundant among our friends the elves, but they donated generously. Dobby volunteered an especially large hank."

"I'm having second thoughts," Snape said darkly, "about the prudence of your venturing out in that guise—not if our ruse about your death and transformation can be so easily penetrated."

"Nonsense," Professor Daine responded. "What you showed us in the Djinn ball was compelling. Voldemort and his gang ate it up. Don't judge its believability by Harry and me. _We_ were predisposed to realizing you'd never go along with Voldemort. Those who don't know you like we do won't be looking for what's behind the curtain."

Harry nodded, taking a bite of apple muffin to hide his guilty smile.

Snape folded his arms on his lap and let his head sink between his shoulders. "Yes. You were predisposed."

McGonagall glanced sharply at Snape, then patted Daine's knee. "We weren't in control of every detail. That Harry had a Djinn ball on him was a stroke of good fortune. When he revealed young Avery's ambitions, we knew the Muggle had to be saved as well."

A warm smile wreathed Dumbledore's face. "You were invaluable there, Harry. When you beat Wilhelm, you gave the Dark Lord pause."

"You saw?"

"By linking to your Djinn ball, yes. We were deathly worried for you, but you did us all proud. If not for your victory, Voldemort would not have been receptive to Severus's bid to patch up their differences."

"Severus timed his entrance to the second," McGonagall put in. "A minute earlier, and he'd have had no rationale for talking He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named into letting the girl go. A half a word later, and she'd have been dead, Wilhelm would've been a Death Eater, and we'd be facing a formidable coven of thirteen fanatics."

"Your Djinn ball was useful in another way," Dumbledore added. "When Severus informed Voldemort that Wilhelm had bungled his search, it was the last demerit against him. If the Dark Lord hadn't taken Severus back, he'd have had a time of it asking for your and the girl's lives."

Harry gazed out the corner of his eye at his uncle. No matter who else had played a part in the plot, its success had been riding on him.

Dumbledore winked as if he'd heard his thoughts. "I don't want you to think we'd have left you, Ariel, Severus and that poor girl 'twisting in the wind.' Minerva had a team of staff and older students that she was ready to Apparate to Severus's side, wands drawn, at his signal. They'd have put up a brave fight, but at the risk of injury, even loss of life. As it was, cunning saved the day."

Harry began rocking meditatively in his chair, seeing the events of his last forty-eight hours in an entirely new light. As Professor Snape had told them in Advanced Potions, to truly understand _anything_, different viewpoints were necessary.

"No two ways about it," Daine said, "you all worked a miracle. I can't tell you how—"

A whooshing sound from the brick fireplace drew everyone's attention. In the vortex of green and orange flames and swirling sparks, a figure started to form. Harry relaxed. The Headmaster was too practiced at protecting his domain for unauthorized guests to find access. Sure enough, the friend that slowly appeared was Hagrid, ducking and hugging his great big knees in order to not bump his half-giant back against the flue.

McGonagall pursed her lips. "And here's the detail we had the least control over of all."

Hagrid crawled across the hearth, then clambered to his feet, his great shaggy head nearly bumping the high copper ceiling.

Professor Daine scooted as far as she could to her side of the sofa and beckoned him. With warm greetings all around, Hagrid shambled over. As he wedged himself between the ladies, the sofa adjusted its size until all three were seated comfortably.

"Ah, Prime Minister, I jus' knew yeh couldn' keep the apple core from Ariel and Harry—" Hagrid frowned at his own odd words and tried again. "O'course, I mean yeh couldn' keep the mandolin—ach! I'm bollixing it. This isn' fair. In presen' comp'ny y'need no' tie me tongue abou' th'Rajah no' bein' outrun, I mean smudged, I mean matriculated, I mean flowered. Stone me! I give in."

Beside him, McGonagall nodded approvingly. "The Misspeak Potion's working. And you must admit, Hagrid, you agreed it was necessary. We respect you and we love you, but we don't trust you to keep a secret."

On his other side, Ariel stroked his hairy wrist. "You poor man! Surely, you should be able to speak freely in here."

Snape swept a hand across his forehead. "I'll see what can be done to refine the formula."

McGonagall shrugged. "Be grateful, Hagrid. The alternative was wiping the knowledge clean from your head. We'd never planned to include you. But when you scooped Albus up from the supper table, such plans went awry."

"You were kindness itself," Dumbledore put in. "You carried me so gently, I felt like a baby in my father's arms."

"And once he put the _patient_ in bed," McGonagall continued, "he wouldn't leave his side until Poppy said, 'Quit your blubbering, Albus is fine. If you don't stop fussing, he won't be able to get up and get on with things.'"

Hagrid looked abashed.

Harry leaned forward. "Your blubbering was very persuasive in the Djinn ball," he said helpfully.

"Oh, that." His friend looked even more embarrassed. "After they lemme in on the grea' good news 'bou' yeh know what, I couldn' manage a tear. Not 'til I'd petted Bête Noire a good two minutes. Then I wep' buckets."

Dumbledore smiled. "Hagrid, you were invaluable in other ways."

Snape nodded. "When Albus presumably lay dying, Hagrid slipped out to the Forbidden Forest and obtained for me the last missing ingredient essential to concocting Polyjuice reversal pills."

"Ach, tha' was nothin'. Th'sugarcube was more'n willin' ter glide th'Skipper."

"You're too modest. For me to secure a vial of centaur's blood would have required force while you obtained a willing donation. Your intrusion into our scheme was providential."

Harry saw his uncle and Hagrid exchange a look of mutual respect. Mollified, the half giant leaned forward, pinched an apricot tart and an apple muffin between two fingers and popped them whole into his mouth.

When Madame Pomfrey and Professor Trelawney joined the group, Dumbledore's sofa expanded yet again.

"Our circle began as five. Now we are eight," Professor Dumbledore began.

"And if we don't restrict the number now," McGonagall interjected, "our next discussion will have to be in the Quidditch pitch."

Snape grimaced and rubbed his forehead. "The express is due. Members of the Ministry of Magic and various notables will be arriving for the funeral. Be on your guard. If our artifice raises questions, we may need to regroup quickly."

"Come what may, we've cause for thanks," McGonagall said primly as she shooed the last of the crockery back to the tea trolley. "Everyone is safe. Wilhelm Avery has been unmasked. Now he can be minded. And most useful of all, Voldemort's coven has been breached again."

"For how long we shall see," Snape muttered.

Harry scanned the adults, wondering who might be a weak link. Apparently, Hagrid was the only one whose knowledge had been encrypted. With Trelawney, the sheer volume of erroneous portents and predictions she spilled out provided the best likelihood of hiding the few that were valid. Pomfrey could be relied upon to protect Dumbledore. He had no questions about Snape or McGonagall. Of the group, Daine had had the most training in guarding whatever secrets she held in her mind. Harry wondered if she felt snubbed by Snape's plans to keep her ignorant. As for himself, he knew _he'd_ keep mum, even if it meant leaving his friends in the dark.

The Headmaster gave each member of the circle a warm, personal smile. "No magic is stronger than good fellowship. The most powerful spell to ensure we keep our own council is our hopes, trust and commitment." He rose from his chair, and the rest of the witches and wizards stood to leave as well.

Professor Daine clasped her hands. "Before we scatter, let me say again how impressed I am. So many branches of magic woven into one marvelous stratagem. Each of you was necessary to make it work. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I'm afraid I'm the only one who didn't contribute a thing."

Her colleagues chimed in with denials and encouragement (except for Snape, elaborately preoccupied with shaking dust from his robes) that _next_ time her Defense Against the Dark Arts skills would come in handy.

Harry knew better. Ariel Daine's contribution _this_ time had been crucial—the clear vision to trust Severus Snape. If she hadn't exposed his good deeds, at Harry's first opportunity, he'd have exposed all the subtle, inspired plotting she was now praising.

The Potions master remained aloof, darting swift glances toward Professor Daine that then veered into inspections of the clock on the mantelpiece, the hang of his sleeves, the landscape painting covering the exit, and the flagstones beneath his boots.

Harry frowned. Surely, his uncle wasn't interpreting Ariel Daine's affectionate, stirring, glowing accolade to him as just a lingering effect of Adoripotion?

* * *

**Comments?**


	59. Quill

_**Chapter 59**_

**QUILL**

The present-day visitors paying their respects to the late headmaster objected to the narrow, single-entry door through which they had to squeeze in order to file past the body. Each staff member referred the complainers to another staff member until nobody quite knew who was responsible for losing the key that could have unlocked the heavy chain securing the majestic double doors or for forgetting the spell that could have broken it. The vast buffet the elves had assembled for Dumbledore's wake in the long gallery off the rotunda appeased most of the grumbles. The future attendants mourning the Headmaster's actual demise slipped into and out of the rotunda at intervals carefully timed by McGonagall to coincide with other distractions.

Harry, Professor Daine and Professor Snape were the center of one such distraction now—an official recitation to the distinguished audience sitting in the gallery of their thrilling escape from the Azkaban fugitives in the Northumberland cottage. Describing the adventure was easy for Harry. Voldemort's rearranged memory was as clear in his head as his real one.

Severus Snape was a different matter. Now that he had a tale that was grand and splashy—something to make people goggle as he'd yearned for as a schoolboy fan of the Longbottoms—he was unenthusiastic about telling it. The more Ariel Daine praised him, the more dispirited he looked.

As he waited for the ordeal to be over, Harry shifted from one foot to the other, his eye on the array of delectable steaming dishes he hadn't yet had a chance to sample.

At last, his uncle folded his arms in his sleeves and murmured, "There's nothing more to say. As the Headmaster lay dying, his last thoughts were for the safety of his colleague, Professor Ariel Daine, and of his student, Harry Potter. I merely carried out his final wishes." Before anyone had a chance to ask a question, the Potions master turned his back, plodded to the back of the podium and down the steps.

For a moment, Harry stood awkwardly, listening to the clapping meant for his uncle. When Headmistress McGonagall stepped forward to begin her eulogy, he quickly exited off the side of the podium nearest the food. As McGonagall extolled Professor Dumbledore's generous heart that had finally succumbed to old age, he saw Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Avery, sitting in the front row, exchange knowing smirks.

Their sons sat apart from them and apart from each other. _No surprise there_, Harry thought. One had disappointed his father by failing to kill Dumbledore, the other by saving him. Draco looked more low-spirited than Harry would have expected. He wondered how long it would take Snape to break down and whisper to his godson that his duel with Wilhelm's surrogate, Filch, had not been in vain after all.

Skirting the seated mourners to reach the food, Harry felt gratified at the applause, sniffles and sobs that greeted each of McGonagall's tributes. Dumbledore should be proud.

When he reached the sumptuous spread at last, he sighed in contentment. Then he heard a familiar voice call his name and cringed. _Rita Skeeter_.

Turning, he saw the old scandalmonger herself, robed in bilious puce-and-yellow, surging down the aisle toward him. The blood red on her lips and talon-like nails made her look like a vulture that had fed but wanted more. The second she reached him, a pink parchment unfurled itself at her side and her green Quick-Quotes Quill started scratching. Unfortunately, the blank side was toward him. He wouldn't be able to read her lies until they appeared on the front page of _The Daily Prophet_.

Skeeter's first question recalled all the embarrassing things she'd written about him when he'd been a Triwizard Tournament champion the year before: "Harry, how scared were you—scared enough to cry?"

The image Voldemort had planted of him sniveling and whining rose in Harry's mind. He grimaced. Surely, playing along didn't mean he had to parrot back all of the Dark Lord's spiteful fabrications.

As he hesitated, Professor Snape glided up beside them. "Potter has said all he needs to say. Let him mourn in peace."

_Not to mention eat in peace_. Harry wasn't certain whether his uncle was protecting him or the conspiracy from Skeeter's nosiness, but either way, he was grateful.

"Just one picture, then—"

On Skeeter's cue, her paunchy photographer sidekick seemed to appear out of nowhere. His camera's flash shut Harry's eyes. His boss's next words opened them wide.

"And a comment on my interview with your girlfriend, Hermione Granger—"

"Hermione's _not_ my girlfriend."

"—ex-girlfriend who claims you couldn't possibly have been held captive by Death Eaters because, at the time, you two were teamed up long distance in a friendly Hogwarts magic contest."

Snape groaned.

The jeweled combs buttressing Skeeter's shellacked hair waves glittered. "How does it feel knowing your ex has had a complete nervous breakdown? Are her hallucinations her just desserts for throwing you over for Viktor Krumm?"

Skeeter's outrageous conclusions weren't as disconcerting to Harry as the realization _We forgot about Hermione!_ Now she'd have to be let in on the secret, too. He glanced at his uncle. Before they knew it, their number would match Voldemort's.

Snape growled. Then he muttered, "Nine."

"What's that?" Skeeter's sharp eyes became predatory behind her jewel-rimmed glasses.

Snape sighed. "A number that is one larger than eight."

"Eight? Nine? Are those your lucky numbers? Tell me, when you gamble, are you luckier than your father? Do you regret that when the goblins seized him for bad debts, you didn't mount a rescue?"

With each question, Harry saw Snape's bearing become stiffer and his face grimmer. Scratch, scratch, scratch went Skeeter's quill. Harry clenched his fists, remembering the trouble that quill had caused him, Hermione and especially Hagrid the year before. The reporter's animagus form—a scuttling beetle—was apt. Hermione should never have released her from her insect jar.

At last, Snape ground out, "My father is not at issue here."

"How about your mother, then. If she hadn't ditched you all those years ago, do you feel she would have been proud of you today?" On cue, a newspaper archive photo popped out of Skeeter's yellow sharkskin handbag: a big jovial wizard with a simpering beauty of a wife holding up an anxious-looking toddler with long, fussy, beribboned, black ringlets.

The picture seemed to unnerve Snape. Instead of responding, he clamped his jaw tighter. At his silence, Skeeter's quill whipped back and forth across the scroll.

_Say something!_ Harry scolded himself. But his thoughts were blank. The veteran reporter's assault was more mind-numbing than Voldemort's.

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ariel Daine bustling up. On hearing her lilting Alabaman accent—"That's enough, now. Let's not disturb the services"—his head began to clear. When Daine waved the old snapshot back into Skeeter's purse, he heard his uncle take a deep, calming breath.

Sighting a new target, Skeeter didn't miss a beat. "How did _you_ feel when Severus Snape gambled with your life? Were you frightened that he'd decided to face his comrades-in-arms alone?"

"_What_ did you say?" Daine blinked. "They _weren't_ his comrades."

"Speaking of comrades, was it awkward being abducted by his old flame?"

"My _what_? Bellatrix LeStrange?" Snape's lip curled. "We never— You're insane."

Skeeter glanced at her scroll. "'Old flame abducts new flame.' That's a headline."

The quill scribbled furiously.

His black eyes murderous, Snape thrust his hand into his robes, whipped out his wand and aimed at Skeeter's parchment. Poof! The calumny disintegrated in cinders. The Quick-Misquotes Quill, apparently used to such retaliation, danced in the air unscathed.

Instead of upset, Skeeter looked thrilled. "Did you get a picture?" When her photographer shook his head, she leered at Snape. "I have a back-up scroll. Would you mind doing that again?"

Grinding his teeth, Snape jerked his wand up to Skeeter's face. Then he plunged his hand to his side. "If you libel me," he bit out, "I'll sue."

"What's the libel?" Skeeter shot back. "That Bellatrix LeStrange is your old flame, or that Ariel Daine is your new one?"

Harry saw spots of red form on Snape's pale cheeks. Bending toward Professor Daine, he breathed in a voice almost too low for Harry to hear, "This is mortifying. I'm sorry. You deserve better."

Before Daine could respond, the photographer butted in and snapped another picture. When Snape turned on him, he sprang backwards five feet. With a snarl, Snape pivoted and strode off toward the far end of the gallery. The photographer caught up with him. Then he scurried along at Snape's side, clicking.

"Would your real parents be proud of you today?" Skeeter called after him. "Have you ever taken Identity Potion to find out who they are?"

Harry glared at Skeeter. Is this the thanks his uncle got for being a hero? Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters had treated him with greater respect. At last, his resentment gave him words. "Have you no decency? This is a funeral."

"Yes, this _is_ a funeral." Skeeter's three gold teeth glinted as her smile broadened. "Which makes me curious. Why do you seem more interested in eating than weeping?"

Harry's stomach clenched. Like Hagrid, learning the great good news that Dumbledore was alive had made him incapable of shedding a tear. If Skeeter was wondering why, were the unseen watchers wondering, too?

Harry drew himself up to his full height. "I don't cry to suit you," he answered with all the young man dignity he could muster. "Headmaster Dumbledore would have wanted me to be strong. I'm merely getting myself a drink of water."

"There's a brave boy," Professor Daine added, picking up a pitcher and pouring one for him. She met his eyes as she handed him the glass, then turned resolutely back to Rita Skeeter. "You're very interested in our Potions master, aren't you? Let me give you the lowdown on him—an exclusive."

Harry saw Skeeter's eyes light up. Professor Daine cupped her hand on the older woman's shoulder. She began talking slowly in her soothing, singsong drawl—in exactly the tones she'd used with the Muggle girl. Belying her gentle words, she switched her wand ominously against her thigh.

With a wistful glance at the buffet, Harry turned and walked his glass of water to an empty chair at the end of a row. Facing the podium, he managed an appropriately glum pose as, one by one, the Hogwarts staff honored Dumbledore.

After a few minutes, Ariel Daine walked up. Bending down, she murmured, "Memory rearrangement can be used for _good_ purposes, too." Then she continued on to the podium and joined her fellow professors.

A moment later, an atypically subdued Skeeter passed Harry, lumbering slowly enough to give him a peek at the Quick-Quotes Quill's entry on her back-up scroll: "Hogwarts reeled today between sorrow and gratitude: sorrow for the passing of their universally loved and revered headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore, and gratitude for the bravery of their renowned Potions master, Professor Severus Snape . . . ."

As Harry listened dolefully to Argus Filch finishing the last tribute, he lamented that the guests were finishing up the last of the main dishes, too. An hour later, filing out of the rotunda after Dumbledore's interment, he was sad to see the side dishes gone as well. Just as he was on his way to grab some of the remaining rolls, cheese and nuts, Headmistress McGonagall made her _shocking_ discovery about Hogwarts's violated protective spells. She roped him and the other older students into each trailing a professor—Flitwick, in his case—with a box of magical meters and monitors, potions and talismans. Owing to the Charms master's meticulousness, two hours passed before the little expert was satisfied he'd adequately re-fortified his assigned section of the castle. When Harry finally returned to the gallery to see McGonagall sending the last guest off to the last train, even the dirty dishes, silverware, and tablecloths had been whisked away.

Harry stared gloomily at where the splendor had been. Then somebody tugged his sleeve. Looking down, he saw a now familiar twinkly-eyed old elf smiling up at him.

"You haven't been forgotten. Your supper is waiting in the kitchen. I believe Professor Daine is already there."

Without a guide, Harry chose countless wrong corridors, started down several misleading staircases, and mistook numerous turns before finally stumbling upon the entryway. The huge doors to the Great Hall were closed, but golden light and enticing smells emanating from a smaller door off to the side identified the usually hidden kitchen where his late, late supper awaited him. _Hurrah!_ Full of both relief and hunger, he started toward it.

"Potter."

The sharp whisper brought Harry up short. Reluctantly, he looked away from the lit doorway and the promise of food to the shadows across the entrance hall. Faintly sketched by moonlight, Snape stood solitary beside a statue of a crouching leviathan. Harry sighed. Facing the professor was the last thing he wanted to do right now, but his uncle's stare was more compelling than an Imperius Curse. Slowly, he trudged toward him.

* * *

**One chapter to go... **


	60. Signs

_**Chapter 60**_

**SIGNS**

As Harry drew near, Snape murmured, "Lumos." His lit wand cast areas of stark brightness and darkness on his pale face. His expression was anything but avuncular.

Harry came to attention a respectful few feet back. "Sir?"

Abruptly, Snape extended his wand, blinding Harry's eyes and obscuring his own. "Just one point I need clarified, Potter. How was it that when Avery kidnapped Professor Daine, you were close enough to be kidnapped as well?"

_I was within eavesdropping distance_. Immediately Harry countered that thought with the resolve to keep his face nonchalant. "To be honest, it all happened so fast. I was feinting around the pine trees, practicing my Wudang Shen, when I saw Professor Daine up ahead, struggling with something invisible. Before I could get to her, that invisible something struck me and—"

Snape's sharp intake of breath stopped Harry mid-sentence. "You're lying." The professor lowered his wand, and Harry rubbed his eyes. In a moment, he could make out Snape's face—his eyes half-closed in thought, his mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

"Why do you think I'm lying?"

Snape snorted softly. "Beyond the four physical signs of nervousness you displayed out of the recognized twelve that denote dissembling?"

Harry frowned. If Snape judged truthfulness on whether or not he made somebody nervous, he must not trust anything anybody ever told him.

"_Beyond_ those signs is the fact that I found your wand atop Professor Daine's. Clearly, you were extremely close when you were taken. That you wanted to disguise the fact indicates—" Snape grimaced, as if unwilling to face the fact himself "—indicates you overheard a certain private conversation."

Harry shifted his weight. How could he get this uncomfortable tête-à-tête over with as quickly as possible? "All right. I confess. I was up in the conifer. I didn't notice you and Professor Daine until you were under me. I didn't want detention for straying into the Forbidden Forest, so I kept quiet. By the time I realized I couldn't possibly avoid hearing you, speaking up would have been embarrassing. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"Sorry!" Snape released a harsh laugh. "Because of one snooping schoolboy, my twenty-year reputation at Hogwarts as an authority to fear and respect will disintegrate. Instead I'll be mocked as . . . pathetic."

Harry gritted his teeth against the familiar onslaught of conflicting emotions Snape forever incited in him. The professor saying he was snooping was unfair. It's not as though he'd planned to listen. And all of Harry's friends and acquaintances _already_ mocked Snape, so what else was new? But pathetic? He risked a quick study of the narrow austere face. Never pathetic.

"I can't even resort to memory rearrangement. The fabulous Harry Potter is impervious to that." Resentment lined Snape's forehead. "Circumstances force you to lie and paint me as a hero, but you'll get your own back, won't you? 'Do you want to know the _real_ reason the professor likes making potions? Do you want to know what he _really_ thinks they're good for?'"

Harry clenched his hands at his sides. The one truly impervious mind he'd ever encountered was Snape's. Unable to contain himself, he blurted out, "Fine. I spied on your conversation. The only thing pathetic about it was your refusal to hear a single word Professor Daine said."

Snape's jaw stiffened. "That's enough. I won't discuss what doesn't concern you."

Harry now understood the exasperation that had made Professor Daine kick the snow. "She likes you. Didn't you hear her say that? Nobody could be more astounded than I am, but the fact is, Professor Daine _likes_ you."

Snape blinked several times, then looked aside. "She was . . . influenced. Don't talk about what you don't understand."

"No, no. Before that. She liked you before that. How could you not know? Do you remember when you talked to her class about memory potions? The minute she noticed you, she did this—" He demonstrated the way Professor Daine had smoothed down her robes. "And that morning you caught me on the statue, her face brightened the moment she saw you. Why do you think she chose you to be her square dancing partner? When she arranged the seating at the Yule ball, why do you think your place was at her side?"

Harry hadn't admitted to himself what those signs had meant, so hard had it been to imagine the pleasant Ariel Daine attracted to the unpleasant Severus Snape. Now he saw the weight of evidence for what it was. How could the Potions master remain so blind?

"Didn't the fact that Professor Daine trusted you despite all evidence to the contrary mean _anything_ to you? Instead, you chose to think your Death Eater act wasn't credible! Well, let me tell you, it _was_. I wanted to believe you were loyal. Dumbledore, Hagrid, Flitwick, McGonagall, Remus—they'd all done a pretty good job persuading me you were. And you're my uncle. I wanted that to count for something. But your charade utterly convinced me you'd become a dirty, rotten, lying, murdering traitor. If Professor Daine hadn't made you confess, I would have given Rita Skeeter the scoop of her life."

Snape's mouth moved but no words came. Harry couldn't tell if the professor was on the verge of believing him or punishing him.

He folded his arms. "Dock points from Gryffindor for my cheek. Go ahead! But I've got to say this: You're hopeless."

From across the entrance hall, a gentle, lilting voice called out, "Harry! Severus!"

Snape didn't move. Instead he set his lips together in a grim line.

Harry took a step backward. The brooding look on the professor's face showed that this was one confrontation he wouldn't twist into an excuse for punishment. _I should be cheering_. Instead, he'd never felt so dissatisfied. A dilemma loomed before him—as critical in its own way as the transfigured dragon, the affronted griffin, the demon laurel, the crazed caretaker, or the Dark Lord himself. And it was up to him to figure out what to do about it.

"Come along, now," Ariel Daine called out to them. "Dobby and Winky have prepared us a feast."

Turning, Harry saw her poised in the doorway, her golden hair burnished into a halo by the candles dancing in the air behind her.

_Feast_. One last argument sprang to Harry's mind. Again he confronted Professor Snape, though this time in an urgent whisper. "No matter what sort of love tonic you sprinkled on her strawberry tart at the Yule Ball, didn't Ariel Daine prove today beyond all shadow of a doubt that no potion is powerful enough to make her not know her own mind?"

Snape's black eyes rose to Harry's. Before his uncle could object again, Harry swung around and hurried across the entryway to the kitchen. As he neared her, Ariel's cloud-colored eyes lingered on a point just past his shoulder. Then she sighed, smiled and welcomed him in.

_Feast_ was an understatement. Instead of serving them leftovers from the wake, their elf friends had created another banquet: curried chicken, saffron rice, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mushroom soup, carrots with fennel, honey glazed parsnips, flaky rolls, poached pears, raspberry trifle, and raisin-studded pudding. One pewter pitcher held steaming mulled apple cider and another iced pumpkin juice. After a day of Voldemort's scraps and nothing but tea treats since, Harry's first substantial meal back at Hogwarts looked grand enough to be a second Christmas. He grabbed a plate and bowls and made his way along the bounty. He was just considering where he should sit when a low voice spoke up behind him.

"Ariel."

Harry saw sunlight spread across Professor Daine's face. "Come in, Severus. We have everything we need."

"Everything I've been needing for a very long time."

Harry rolled his eyes. Good thing he hadn't settled down at the table. Being the third wheel at wherever their conversation went next would have been distinctly uncomfortable.

Turning toward the two professors, Harry brought a casual smile to his face. "Well, I'm knackered. If it's not rude, I'd rather take this upstairs and eat it in bed."

A smile hovered on Ariel Daine's lips. "If you prefer."

His uncle's expression remained cool, yet Harry could sense impatience simmering just below the surface. An absurd feeling of accomplishment stirred inside him. Snape and Daine were together again. For the first time in ages, Harry Potter had saved the day. Balancing a laden plate, a crock of soup, a bowl of pudding, a glass of apple cider, a mug of pumpkin juice and the utensils needed to eat it all, he sauntered toward the door.

As he neared Snape, the dark eyes flickered over to him. "Potter." The professor reached into his black robes and pulled out Harry's old friend—his eleven-inch, holly-wood, phoenix-powered wand.

Burdened with crockery, Harry worked two fingers loose so Snape could place his wand between them.

"Try Equilibrius," the professor murmured.

Harry frowned at his armful. Awkwardly, he wiggled his wand. At the word "Equilibrius" his entire meal rose from his arms to balance in the air above him. He glanced from his food to the professor.

"Say _de_ in front of the spell when you want to bring everything down to eat."

"Thank you, sir." Harry adjusted his glasses firmly on his nose. "And thanks for retrieving my wand."

Snape shrugged. "I've been carrying it since coming across it in the snow. If things had not gone as planned, that wand would have been our best defense . . . ."

As the professor's words trailed off, indignation flashed inside Harry. "My wand? You know my wand matches Voldemort's. You know it's held its own against his in a wizard duel. You were planning to use it to—"

"Your wand?" Snape's scornful laugh cut him off. "You think _I _would have used _that_? I much prefer my own ebony wand. None of that ridiculous swish, swish, swish of holly."

For an instant the scoffing voice provoked a tightening in Harry's stomach, a stiffening across his shoulders, and a clenching of his teeth. Then the import of Snape's words, contrary to his contemptuous manner, flashed into Harry's mind. The professor had been bringing the wand to _him_. Snape had judged _him_ the wizard who could provide the best defense in a duel against Voldemort. _Severus is nothing if not logical_, Dumbledore had said.

As his uncle the Potions master trained his fathomless black eyes on him, Harry saw something more—acceptance, a touch of respect, even some grudging appreciation. Harry started to smile. Then the lids lowered slightly and Harry caught the threat of more petty detentions than he'd ever dreamed existed if he dared acknowledge any of it.

He glanced upward. His plate, bowls, silverware, glass and mug still floated above him. Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled at Professor Daine. "See you tomorrow." She nodded vaguely, her warm hazel eyes fixed on Professor Snape.

Without another word, Harry led his dishes out the kitchen door.

* * *

Ten minutes later Harry was sitting cross-legged under Hagrid's monstrous red-and-yellow afghan, his feast spread before him. Behind him, Bête Noire had laid claim to his pillow, crouching there to purr and gnaw on the chicken bone that had been the last item stored in the Lockit Pocket. A note from Remus left on Boxing Day—saying he was popping down to London to see his flat mate—had told Harry he had the room to himself. With no worries about the late hour, he'd set up the Weasleys' gift of a CD player on the foot of his bed. Right now his headphones were blaring into his ears a pulsating, guitar-and-drum anthem.

_Muggles can make magic, too_, he thought and wolfed down another forkful of gravy-smothered roast beef.

As described in Voldemort's memory rearrangement, Harry had found his Djinn ball on his bed—as if he'd never had it with him. He wondered whether Uncle Snape had inserted that detail just so he could return it. Being crumpled in the Potions master's robes had evidently loosened up his straight-laced tutor. As the classic rock song faded to a close, Harry caught the instruction sheet murmuring, "Groovy!"

Harry grinned. Then, in the momentary silence, he heard fluttering. Hedwig? In a moment, the owl poked her beak between the velvet folds of his bed curtains and strutted toward him, a tube of red leather strapped to her right leg. Ignoring the softly chirring black cat, the bird extended Cho's reply. When Harry unstrapped the carrying case and shook out the blue parchment scrolled inside, he saw a diamond of yellow wax imprinted with three of the Mandarin characters he'd learned reading _Seven Tablets in a Cloudy Satchel_.

"Harmony, Joy and Promise," he said aloud.

_A sign_.

A synthesizer fanfare exploded in his headphones. Letting it soar through him, Harry cracked the wax seal and opened Cho's letter.

_**The End**_

* * *

Thanks for reading this fan fiction. And special _kittens, chocolate covered cherries, and hugs_ to readers who commented, followed, favorited and/or added this story to a community. Evidence that someone is reading is very much enjoyed and appreciated.

_**And for those of you who read 60 chapters with no hint you were there, it's not too late to do the right thing. Seriously, even one word would be nice.**_

I wrote **The Potions Master - Redux** with thoughts of writing the second half of this alternate fifth year. If you would consider giving it a try, please leave an indication (a fave, follow, or comment). I'd like to know if there's interest. I'd begin a sequel by adding an epilogue to Part 1 pointing to Part 2 (don't know the title yet). If you "follow," you would receive one "alert" e-mail.

Since I'm in the middle of three other stories, a sequel wouldn't start posting until late August or September. If there are any loose ends you think should be explored, please mention them in a comment.

* * *

My current obsession is the wizard _**Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold (Robert Carlyle)**_ on Once Upon a Time (ABC TV show). Click on my profile for links to these works-in-progress:

**Trick of Hearts** - Romantic suspense set in fairy tale land from the point-of-view of Rumplestiltskin (spinner of gold, maker of deals, the Dark One) as he takes on the miller's daughter as his new apprentice. Is it ever wise to teach a disciple _ever__y_ bit of magic one knows? This fanfic is intended to require no knowledge of OUaT (except the understanding that Rumplestiltskin, for all his bizarre behavior, is not the hobgoblin of the Brothers Grimm story but is, instead, this rather sexy fellow: replace "DOT" with punctuation in tinyurl**DOT**com/a9qxtvz). Expect ogres.

**The Road Forgotten** - Romantic angst in present-day Storybrooke, Maine (populated by refugees from fairy tale land) from the point-of-view of an amnesic Belle (of Beauty and the Beast) and Mr. Gold (Storybrooke identity of Rumplestiltskin who, in fairy tale land, was Belle's Beast). Just as Belle begins to fall in love with Mr. Gold all over again, the Evil Queen implants a less wholesome personality that even true love's kiss may not be able to handle. (To see a brilliant 2 minute 40 second music video of the lead-in to this story, see youtube**DOT**com/watch?v=TK7fO8j1Z30.)

**Waylaid** - Adventure/romance/angst from multiple points-of-view in Storybrooke **_and_** fairy tale land (Mr. Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Belle, Mr. Smee, grownup Pinocchio, human Jiminy Cricket, grownup Little Red Riding Hood, Prince Charming, Snow White, grownup Peter Pan). Expect Lost Boys. (To see another great music video, 3 minutes 13 seconds, of what makes Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold so fascinating, see youtube**DOT**com/watch?v=QAAn4uERXhA.)


End file.
